


Isosceles

by SilentAuror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domesticity, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, First Times, Jealous!John, Jealousy, John is a very good friend, Love Triangle, M/M, Miscommunication, POV: John, Romance, Virgin!Sherlock, sexual coaching, so much food, unrequited feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: After solving a case for a major celebrity, Sherlock gets himself asked out. When John asks, he discovers that Sherlock has no intention of going, at least not until John agrees to coach him through whatever he might need to know for his date...





	1. Chapter 1

**Isosceles**

**Chapter 1**

It starts with an email on a Tuesday afternoon sometime in April. 

John is sitting in his chair reading the paper and Sherlock is sitting across from him, his laptop balanced on his knees. “Hmm,” Sherlock says. 

John looks up. “What’s that?” he asks mildly. 

Sherlock is frowning at the screen. “Just got a request for a highly confidential case. They won’t say what it’s about. I’m supposed to call.” 

John rolls his eyes. “Probably just someone’s wife cheating or something. Why should you have to chase them down?” 

“Excellent point, as ever,” Sherlock says. “However, I confess myself to being curious. And there’s really nothing else of interest. A stolen watch. Three cases to which I can easily guess the outcomes and which therefore don’t warrant our particular abilities. A lost cat. Whereas this one has left me an email, and specified that it’s an artificially-generated address.”

“Hence your interest,” John says, suppressing a sigh. “Well, I suppose you can’t just ignore that bait, can you?” 

“I’ll just email and tell them to phone me if it’s so urgent,” Sherlock decides, already typing rapidly. A moment later he clicks. “There.” He picks up his phone and stares at it expectantly. 

John watches him for a moment, strongly tempted to laugh, but in all likelihood, the call will come. Meanwhile, Sherlock looks boyishly young, sitting with his knees bent double, his laptop set aside and temporarily forgotten, the sunlight coming in behind him making a halo out of his curls. He opens his mouth to say something, though nothing he remembers later, when the phone rings in Sherlock’s hands. 

Sherlock answers on the third ring. “It’s blocked,” he informs John. “Hardly surprising. I take it we’re not dealing with amateurs.” He answers. “Hello.” He listens. “Yes, it is. Who is this?” A much longer pause comes next, Sherlock’s brow furrowing. “Yes,” he says, his face intent. “Understood. Go on.” He listens, and John stops pretending that he isn’t interested, watching Sherlock’s face. The speaker on the other end goes on and on and on. Sherlock asks a question or two, but nothing that sheds any light on the situation. Finally Sherlock says, “Yes, all right. We’ll be in touch. I’m to contact you for – yes. All right, then. Tomorrow.” He hangs up. 

John can’t contain his own curiosity. “What was that?” he asks, the _Times_ forgotten. 

Sherlock is still frowning, his thumbs tapping away at his phone screen. “Have you heard of an actor called Corey Graham?” 

John blinks. “As in, Corey Graham from the _Miracle Man_ film franchise?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I suppose so. Is this him?” He turns his phone screen toward John, showing a handsome, muscular, blond man in his mid-thirties, decked out in his signature blue-suited superhero costume. 

“Er, yeah,” John says. “We saw the first one when it came out. It wasn’t long after you came back. I don’t expect you would remember it, though. I believe you said the plot was ‘puerile’, if memory serves.” 

Sherlock snorts, withdrawing the phone. “It probably was. Most of them are.” 

“True,” John allows. “So what’s this, then? Are we solving a crime involving Corey Graham? Who was that?” 

“It was his PA, Anna,” Sherlock tells him, putting the phone down and fixing John with his gaze. “Apparently a photographer may or may not have stolen some photographs of a sensitive nature from earlier in the actor’s career, owing to a current dispute between them now.”

“Photographs ‘of a sensitive nature’,” John repeats, his eyebrows rising. “In other words, they’re nudes.” 

Sherlock smirks. “I surmised as much. They can’t be certain whether or not the photos have been stolen, and if so, what the photographer intends to do with them. They’d like us to confirm and retrieve said photos, as quietly as possible.” 

John understands at once. “Right, I guess they don’t want the tabloids printing them. So what are we supposed to do about it?” 

“Ascertain whether or not a safety deposit box has been accessed here in London where the photographs were taken, first off, then go from there based on what we find. Anna is sending over a key to the deposit box as we speak, and they’re meeting us here as soon as they’ve flown over, first thing tomorrow morning,” Sherlock says briskly. “Once we’ve got the key, we’ll go to the bank.” 

“Where’s he flying from?” John asks, ignoring the assistant. Corey Graham is a household name – at least, to everyone who isn’t Sherlock or hasn’t been living under a rock for the past ten years or so, anyway. The notion of getting to meet him is honestly quite exciting. 

“Los Angeles,” Sherlock says, not seeming to care either way. “The bank is a Barclay’s, not far from us. We could probably even walk, if you like.” 

This comes with a slight dig; Sherlock likes making fun of the fact that John now exercises regularly. John rolls his eyes. “Sure, that would be great,” he says, determinedly ignoring Sherlock’s jibe. “As soon as we’ve got the key, then. I suppose Anna is still in LA, too?” 

Sherlock nods, scanning his phone again. “Not sure what the fuss is about. I’m sure he’s got nothing to be ashamed of.” 

John pauses, not sure which angle of this to address first. “It’s about his reputation, Sherlock. His professionalism.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “Everyone has a body,” he says practically. “One can see why someone with his might use it to turn a profit. I don’t see what the fuss is about. But if the photographs have been stolen, we’ll recover them. Seems simple enough.” 

John debates internally for a moment, then decides to just leave it. If Sherlock can’t understand at face value why a major celebrity wouldn’t want nude photos of himself sold to the tabloids, especially British ones, then he’s not even sure how to explain the reasoning behind it. Never mind, then. He looks at Sherlock and fights down a surge of affection for his best friend. Things have been good lately. Very good, even. They seem to have found their groove again, their rhythm. John moved back in not long after the whole debacle with Sherlock’s sister. The entire thing stirred up so much discussion of family and family history that John eventually got in touch with his mother again, re-established what’s turned out to be a pretty good connection, and now she and Harry and Rosie are all living together just a few blocks away. He visits regularly, mostly to spend time with Rosie. It was his mother’s idea, having Rosie stay with them. Harry had just split from her most recent relationship, her girlfriend keeping the flat, and their mother offered one of her two spare rooms, to keep an eye on Harry, she said, though Harry’s been sober for years now. John suspected it was more because Mum wanted some company and some help keeping the flat up and running, and Rosie has proven to be the bond that keeps them all in closer contact than they’ve had for the past two decades or so. It’s been good. 

And it’s left him space, too, space to sort himself out after Mary’s death, the trauma that Eurus Holmes inflicted on everyone she came into contact with, and to wrestle his own demons back into control, work on fixing his friendship with Sherlock, and generally get back into some sort of life. They had all the big talks back in January, one long Saturday of endless-seeming apologies, mostly on his part, and it’s all water under the bridge now. They took a bit of time off from crime-solving, mostly to rebuild Baker Street. Mrs Hudson went to stay with her sister in Cornwall for a month while the contractors were working. John and Sherlock did a lot of the small stuff themselves – repapering the walls, repainting what needed repainting, spackling up the holes and rehanging the artwork, feeding themselves on takeaway until the wiring was fixed. Somewhere in there, John started sleeping over again, just because the trek back to Mary’s flat was so long, and besides, the flat was haunted with clouded memories of his life there, the life he never really wanted in the first place. Finally they came to the end of the renovations and Sherlock asked him, his voice a bit distant, when he was just going to bring the rest of his things and move in properly. 

He’d asked with what John could recognise as trepidation in his voice, nearly hidden behind his careful mask of politeness, but nonetheless there. John had just had the tea with his mother and sister the previous day that decided on Rosie’s situation, affording his daughter the first glimmerings of stability that she’s had in her short life. He was free to go where he wanted, without having to think of her first, free to choose what he really wanted. He’d cleared his throat and said that they could go by the flat and pick up the rest of his things that night, if Sherlock wanted, and it was decided just like that. His things fit into five or six boxes at the most. They brought it to Baker Street in a taxi, then John hired a company to sell off the rest of it, the furniture and Mary’s things, and put the flat on the market. It sold within a month, which has left him comfortably well off for the first time in his life, a fund set up to cover all of Rosie’s expenses (with a tactful amount left over to take care of Mum, too), and he’s been free to actually do what he wants for the first time in ages. And it’s been good: they solve crimes. He blogs about it. They cook. They go out. They visit Mrs Hudson. Sometimes Sherlock comes with him to visit Rosie. Sometimes they stop by, have a cup of tea with John’s mother, then collect Rosie and take her somewhere. But for the most part, it’s just the two of them. And that’s been fine. More than fine: they’re both happy, John thinks. The shadow of the past two years is finally beginning to recede. 

It’s about damned time, he thinks. 

*** 

As Sherlock predicted, the photos were indeed stolen. This fact leads to them presenting themselves at the rather grand front desk of the Ritz the following morning, Sherlock requesting the name of Anna Rodriguez, which elicits a discreet phone call upwards, followed by the directive to further present themselves at the door of the Trafalgar Suite. 

An attractive woman in her late thirties answers the door with a smile. “Gentlemen! Thank you so much for coming!” she says warmly. “Please come in!” 

Her accent is charming and she’s rather beautiful, John notices, but his attention is on the other person standing in the middle of the luxuriously-appointed sitting room, hands on his hips and looking somewhat apprehensive. Corey Graham is instantly recognisable even un-airbrushed, super-humanly attractive in a pair of probably-designer jeans and a plain, long-sleeved black shirt that hugs his chiseled pecs and arms and makes John feel immediately short and dumpy in spite of his recent working out. His hair is somewhere between blond and light brown, his signature hazel eyes warm in spite of his apprehension. 

Anna introduces them all. “Corey, this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson,” she says, without confirming who is who. She knows who they are. “And I’m sure you two must be familiar with Corey Graham.” 

Sherlock doesn’t flinch. “Indeed,” he says politely. Corey advances and holds out a hand to shake, offering it to John next in a firm grip that makes it clear that his arms aren’t just for show, either. 

“Thank you for coming,” he says, echoing his assistant. “Uh, please have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink? Anna?” 

He’s polite, John thinks critically. Most celebrities would probably get their assistants to do the serving, yet he’s offering to serve her, too. 

Sherlock waves this off. “We’re fine,” he says, speaking for both of them. 

“Anna?” Corey repeats, looking at her. 

“Maybe just a water,” Anna says, smiling his way. “Thanks.”

Corey goes over to a bar table and stoops to open what must be a small fridge beneath it, drops several ice cubes into a tall glass and fills it with water, then comes back. “Here you go,” he says, handing it off to his assistant, then gestures Sherlock and John to the sofa, sitting down in one of the rather-elegant chairs opposite. Anna sits down in the other one. “So,” Corey says, crossing one leg over the other and clasping his hands around the upper knee. “What’s the story?” 

Sherlock glances at John. “I’m afraid it’s not good news,” he says, rather apologetically. “The photos have indeed been taken from the safe. From a legal standpoint, it can’t be considered a theft as you did give the photographer the second key to the safety deposit box. That said, we’re well aware that you’ll want the photos back before they’ve been published – which would be the actual, though generally un-prosecuted, crime.” 

Corey rubs his temples with the thumb and fourth finger of one hand. John thinks of the fact that he would have to use both to accomplish the same thing and attempts to suck in his midsection as casually as he can. The man is an actual _god_. Who could be expected to compete?! “Shit,” Corey says, belying his usual, polished, polite image. “Yeah, you’re right about that. What do you think are the chances of getting them back before someone else gets their hands on them?” he asks Sherlock directly, lowering his hand to look him in the eye. 

“Well,” Sherlock says carefully, “I would say fairly strong. Who is the photographer?” 

“His name is Evan Armstrong,” Corey says carefully, directing a look that John doesn’t quite understand at Anna. “I don’t have his current contact information, just his email.” 

“We can probably find him,” Sherlock says. He fixes Corey with his gaze. “Go on.” 

Corey frowns. “What do you mean? What else do you want to know?” 

“Some background would be helpful,” John supplies. “How long ago the photos were taken. Under what circumstances. Why they’ve been stolen only now. That sort of thing.” 

Corey clears his throat. “Uh, well, they were taken about eight years ago. I’d just made my first bigger movie, but it hadn’t done very well, and… well, the offer came through, and – it’s more common than you guys probably know. And I – ”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No,” he interrupts, though nicely enough. “Not that. That doesn’t matter. I mean, how did you meet? Or what’s the connection between you and this photographer and why should he have stolen the photos? Why were you sharing a safety deposit box? And so forth.” 

Corey coughs. Anna looks at him, then swiftly intervenes. “I think this would probably be a good moment to remind you both of how very confidential this meeting is,” she warns. “This is… very personal information you’re asking for.” 

Sherlock doesn’t budge. “You’ve hired us to solve a case. That requires information,” he says, then looks at Corey pointedly and waits. 

Corey nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says, his breath gusting out in a sigh. He runs a hand through his perfectly-styled hair. “Look – it became more than a professional relationship, all right? It didn’t last more than a few months, but we’d agreed that those photos would never be sold or displayed, and set up the safe as a place to keep them. Recently he got in touch and wanted to reconnect. I said I wasn’t interested and he got upset. I think he’d been drinking and he said a few ugly things, including a reference to the photos, and I got worried. Does that tell you enough?” 

This comes out a bit defensive and John shoots Sherlock a cautionary look, which Sherlock intercepts and registers. “Yes, I see,” he says. “And you couldn’t verify the fact without being here yourself. When did you last speak to him?” 

“The night before last,” Corey tells him, his fingers twisting together. “I didn’t know what to do.” 

“So, what would you like us to do?” John asks him, getting straight to the point. “Find him and get the photos back, I assume?” 

“In addition,” Sherlock adds, before Corey can respond, “I would imagine that you would prefer us to confiscate all laptops, hard drives, and other storage ware that he could have stored copies on, in addition to any online or cloud storing locations, should we find manage to prove that he did make unlicensed copies with or without intent to sell. Should be easy to get a warrant once that’s confirmed.” 

Corey’s face relaxes. “Oh my God, that would be amazing if you could,” he says gratefully. “And – the sooner the better, you know?” 

“Of course.” Sherlock stands. “In that case, we’ll be off.” He looks at Anna. “We’ll be in touch when we’ve got something to report.” 

Both Anna and Corey look a bit surprised by the speed of their departure. “Oh – great,” Anna says, hastily getting to her feet. “Do you need anything else from our end?” 

“Nope,” Sherlock says breezily, already making for the door. “Come on, John.” 

John gives them an awkward wave and Corey smiles at him. 

“Thanks,” he says warmly, his famous smile causing John to be temporarily unable to speak. 

He nods and gets himself out the door with his dignity intact, hurrying after Sherlock. 

*** 

The case is easy, in the end. They find Evan Armstrong in his cubicle at work, march him home, retrieve the photos, and after having obtained his very-reluctant access to his email accounts (helped along by the arm John had twisted behind his back), confirmed his intent to sell to a particularly vicious tabloid. He also agrees, through gritted teeth, to allow John to inspect his flat from top to bottom for copies while Sherlock goes through all of his photo uploading accounts in search of digital copies. After having deleted the one set he finds, Sherlock finally lets Armstrong go, taking the safety deposit box key with him. They’re back at the Trafalgar Suite by half-past seven that evening. In the taxi on the way there, John looks down at the envelope sitting on Sherlock’s knees. 

“I suppose we shouldn’t admit to having seen them,” he says. “Though I only got a glimpse of the ones on his computer.” 

“I specifically avoided looking at them,” Sherlock says briskly. “If he wants them not to be seen, then they shouldn’t be seen.” 

John looks at him with both surprise and respect. “Fair enough,” he says, and drops the subject. 

Back at the Ritz, Corey answers the door himself. His eyes go immediately to the envelope in Sherlock’s hands. “Is that – ” he starts, and Sherlock hands it to him. 

“Safe and sound,” he promises. “They haven’t even left the envelope. One digital copy was made and it’s been destroyed.” 

Corey is the picture of relief. “Oh my God, you’re amazing! Come in, come in – let me pour you both a drink! I owe you at least that!” 

Anna clears her throat. “As to that, is the fee we talked about still agreeable?” she asks Sherlock politely. 

Sherlock makes a dismissive face, but Corey interrupts. “Whatever it was, double it. Triple it.” 

Anna shoots him a look. “Corey – ”

“It’s not necessary,” Sherlock says mildly, but Corey isn’t having it. 

“Triple it,” he repeats firmly. “Now: tell me what you’re drinking.” 

John and Sherlock exchange a look and Sherlock shrugs. “What have you got for whiskey?” John asks. 

“That’s scotch, right?” Corey peers at the assortment of bottles. “Uh, looks like they have Glenfiddich, Talisker, and Balvenie.” 

Sherlock looks blank, so John intervenes. “Talisker, then?” 

“I’ll have the same,” Sherlock says, and John throws him a half-smile. They both know that Sherlock can appreciate a fine whiskey but doesn’t know anything about them. The same goes for beer, but he’s surprisingly knowledgeable when it comes to wine. 

Corey says something to Anna, asking, then comes over with four glasses a moment later. “Sorry, I should have asked if you take ice,” he says, ice cubes clinking. 

“We do,” John assures him, reaching to accept a tumbler of golden liquid. They all sit down in the same places as earlier, and over the drink everyone relaxes a bit. Corey asks them curiously about their work. He looks at John several times, rather speculatively, but doesn’t ask whatever he’s wondering. Now that the case is wrapped up, Sherlock mellows a little, and John privately wonders whether the rather undeniable charm of their host (not that Anna is to be dismissed in this regard, either, but still) is getting to him, too. After a pleasant hour or so, they refuse a third drink and say they should get going. Anna collects their glasses and takes them to stack on a tray in the corner by the bar table for room service to collect, and Corey follows them to the door. 

“Thanks again, both of you,” he says, shaking John’s hand, then turning to Sherlock. Instead of reaching for his hand, however, he hesitates. “Listen… I don’t have any immediate plans to leave London, and if you’d like to do this again sometime, I’d like that.” 

Sherlock looks surprised, and it’s very much clear to John that the invitation is specifically for Sherlock only. A stab of something pierces him in the gut, but before he can react, Anna is there, clearing her throat subtly to get his attention. John looks at her, blinking and trying to make himself focus, and she gives him a small envelope. 

“Thanks again, so very much,” she says. “For both your speed of response, for your work, and above all, your discretion. We appreciate it so very much.” 

John studies her for a second, wondering at this obvious distraction from the fact that her client is currently asking his flatmate out. He supposes that this answers the question of whether or not Corey Graham has anything going on with his rather-attractive assistant, then. “Of course,” he says automatically, then turns back to Sherlock, his stomach knotting itself. 

Corey is just putting his phone away and glances at Sherlock with a quick smile. “Thanks,” he says, then looks at John to include him in it. “You guys were fantastic. I’m really grateful.” 

Sherlock gives him an odd smile. “Don’t mention it,” he says, and they go. 

John waits until they’re getting into one of the taxis waiting outside in the queue before saying anything. “What was _that_ , then?” 

Sherlock shrugs modestly. “Nothing.” 

John makes an exasperated sound. “He just asked you out!” 

Sherlock’s shoulder twitches again. “Perhaps. What of it?” 

“What of it?” John echoes. “It’s sort of a big deal when you get asked out by a superstar of that magnitude, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please. It’s nothing, John. He was just grateful to be spared the embarrassment.” 

John opens his mouth to point out that this ‘gratitude’ didn’t extend to asking _him_ along for said drink, though Corey was consistently nothing but polite, gracious, and very nice to him throughout. He changes his mind and closes his mouth. The drive progresses in silence for a few minutes. Then he says, unable to stop himself, “So, not going for it, then?” 

Sherlock makes a derisive sound to show what he thinks of that. “Of course not.” 

John feels oddly relieved, but the twisting in his gut hasn’t stopped yet. “Okay,” he says, aware that it’s an empty, pointless thing to say, but he’s not sure what else to say to that. 

It’s a short drive back to Baker Street. It’s nine o’clock, but they haven’t eaten yet, and Sherlock says something about ordering in Chinese from the corner, and just like that things are mostly back to normal again. John agrees and suggests a dish or two, and Sherlock calls to order as they’re jogging up the stairs. John fills and plugs in the kettle once he’s taken off his things, and Sherlock kneels to light the fire, switching on the telly for the news. 

*** 

The following afternoon, however, Sherlock’s phone pings with a text. They’re sitting across the table from each other, having just finished last night’s dishes, reading the papers. Sherlock picks up his phone, reads the text, then puts it down again without responding. He goes back to reading whatever he was reading and turns a page. 

John can’t help himself. “What was that?” he inquires, managing to keep his voice bland. Perfect. 

Sherlock shrugs, his seeming-default response to anything related to the subject of Corey Graham since last night. “Nothing important.” 

John feels his lips tighten. “Was that him?” 

Sherlock picks up his tea and takes a sip, then nods, putting the cup back down. “Wants to know if I’m free for a drink or dinner.” 

John thinks of the lamb chops they’ve got in the fridge, fresh and ready to be roasted for dinner, per their plans. Sherlock was talking about making his signature pan-fried potatoes with them. John was going to make green beans with toasted almonds. But now this may be ousted in favour of dinner with Corey Graham. “What are you going to say?” he asks, the words coming out slightly mangled. 

For a long moment, Sherlock doesn’t answer, his eyes on the newspaper in front of him. Then, finally, he says, “I wasn’t really planning on answering. I imagine he’ll take the hint.” 

Relief is John’s first feeling. Nonetheless, he feels he should protest somehow. “I know we’ve got those chops, but you could still go for a drink,” he offers, as though proffering an olive branch. 

“Not interested,” Sherlock says. He turns another page. “Please drop it,” he adds, before John can speak again. He raises his eyes without moving his head, their gazes locking for an intense moment. 

John feels slightly chastised by the look. “Okay,” he mutters, his shoulders tense. The knot in his belly takes longer to relax, but eventually it does. 

They roast the lamb chops and make everything else they were talking about, and drink half a bottle of pinot noir with it, John keeping to his two-glass maximum. It’s not really a problem per se – it never was – but he’s careful of it now. It runs in the family and all that, and he doesn’t want to see himself devolve the way his father did, the way Harry did. The way he was beginning to, following Mary’s death. Before it, too, if he’s being honest. Two glasses is enough. The lamb turns out perfectly, tender and falling off the bone, Sherlock’s potatoes crispy on the outside and butter-soft on the inside, and John’s green beans and almonds add another layer of texture and flavour, and it’s delicious. 

Later, as they’re sitting by the fire with their books, John tries again. The food and wine and space have settled him, curbed his immediate and intense jealousy at the very concept, and he feels badly for having reacted the way he did. “Can I just ask…” He trails off, waiting for Sherlock to look up. 

He does, turning his book facedown on his knee. It’s a heavy tome about forensics in the early eighteenth century. He looks across at John. “Is this about the drinks thing again?” he asks, patiently, though the corners of his mouth are set. 

“I’m just – curious, is all,” John says, and it comes out apologetically. “I mean – is there no interest whatsoever on your part? One could hardly fault you if there were – he’s a _very_ attractive man. Even I can see that, and I’m not – ” He stops. “You know what I’m saying. But do you really not – ?”

Sherlock surveys him. “Not what?” he asks. “Feel an attraction?” 

Saying yes to this feels too direct, so John sidesteps it. “Date,” he says instead. “I mean, I’ve never seen you do it – unless you count fake-dating Janine for the Magnussen case, but I mean for real. Do you just – never do that, at all?” 

“Have you ever known me to?” Sherlock counters. 

“Not to my active knowledge, no,” John returns. It’s beginning to feel like a sparring match and he didn’t intend for Sherlock to feel the need to be defensive about it. “I’m asking out of sheer curiosity,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to ask, to be honest. It’s just never really come up.” He glances at Sherlock, trying to gauge his reaction, but Sherlock is just waiting, watching him warily, so he tries again. “So – no to the dating, then. Can I ask why not? I mean… are you never attracted to anyone? I’m aware that that’s a thing. Is – is that why?” 

Sherlock contemplates this seriously for a moment or so. “No,” he says after a bit, sounding pensive. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that. Or I wouldn’t cite that as a reason, per se.”

This brings the tightness back to John’s gut. “So _are_ you attracted to Corey, then?” he asks, feeling at the same time that it’s still odd to be referring to one of the most famous actors in Hollywood strictly by his first name. 

Sherlock’s lips compress a little. “I wouldn’t say that I’m not attracted to him…” 

John’s stomach folds over on itself. “So why don’t you want to meet him for a drink, then?” he asks, ignoring the haze clouding his vision. “What’s stopping you? He’s clearly into you…”

“I’m aware of that.” Sherlock looks down at his book, his thumbnail digging a crescent-shaped dent over the author’s name. “You’ll think this ridiculous,” he says, glancing up at John through his lashes. 

John swallows. “I won’t,” he says firmly. “What is it, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock opens his mouth, inhaling, then stops. “I – you know that I pride myself on having a certain… reputation. For my work. For our work. I like to flatter myself that a large part of said reputation is in my mental acuity.” 

“Yeah, I’d say that’s accurate,” John says, a bit dryly. “Most of England knows that you’ve got the biggest brain hereabouts. Go on.” 

Sherlock seems to be having difficulty putting his thoughts into words. “Well…” He stops, attempting to gather his thoughts. “I like to be seen as – competent. Professional. And this – it’s an area in which I very much lack experience. And consider it somewhat too late to attain it,” he adds, before John can contest this. “It _is_.” 

John closes his mouth. Then – “Okay, but when you say that you lack experience – are you talking about dating? Or – all of it?” 

Sherlock swallows and looks into the fire. “All of it,” he says quietly. 

John blinks and attempts to metabolise this information. “So you’ve never – ” He stops. 

“Never,” Sherlock says, his eyes flicking to John’s for the briefest of seconds. “It’s – it may be acceptable to be a – a fumbling idiot when you’re sixteen. I’m not sixteen. And I have no intention of putting myself into any such situation where I’ll look – and be – entirely out of my depth. It may sound like an idiotic reason to you, but there it is. Satisfied?” 

“What? No!” John says, louder than he meant to. Sherlock looks startled, so he goes on. “No,” he says again, still forcibly. “Sherlock – I know I’ve ragged you about this before, but just listen for a second. You could be denying yourself all sorts of potential happiness by shutting yourself off like this. And this is _Corey Graham_. Most people would give just about anything for the chance at a date with the likes of him!” 

“I’m not most people,” Sherlock says stubbornly. 

“Well, that’s certainly true, but – you said that you’re attracted to him,” John persists. 

“No, I said that I wasn’t _not_ attracted to him,” Sherlock corrects him, his jaw jutting out a little. 

John rolls his eyes. “Same difference. You’re attracted to him, and he’s obviously into you. I get what you’re saying about not liking to seem out of your depth. I really do. It makes complete sense to me, especially for you. But you can surely handle a drink. I mean, you just had a drink with him and it was fine. You have drinks with other people all the time – Lestrade and his gang. Me.” 

“That’s different,” Sherlock insists. “A date comes with specific types of pressure. I’m acutely aware of the difference. And what about after that? The second date? The entire spectrum of – physical involvement?” He shakes his head. “It’s not worth it for the… accompanying embarrassment.” 

John softens. “Okay, I get that,” he says, and he does. He can’t imagine being the age he is and having to admit to a woman he’s about to go to bed with that it’s his first time and he hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing. That would be excruciating. Then again… “You know, though, some people like that,” he points out. “Being with someone for their first time.” 

Sherlock coughs and his cheeks flush. He mumbles something that John doesn’t catch. 

“What?” John asks, turning an ear toward him. 

“I said, I don’t even know how to kiss properly,” Sherlock says, his face burning. “It’s not as though one can take a course on the subject, make a thorough study of it. I’ve missed the socially acceptable window for learning. I’m fine as I am. Don’t – fuss.” 

John sits back a little. “Sorry,” he says, meaning it. His thoughts and feelings both are in a swirl of unidentified murk at the moment, but one question sorts itself through the mire. “But if you _had_ the relevant experience, just hypothetically speaking, would you be interested in going on this date?” 

Sherlock pauses for a long moment, breathing audibly through his nose, then he says, “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

John studies him. He definitely doesn’t feel as good as he should about this, but a good friend would say this. “It’s none of my business, but I think you should go,” he says, internally grateful that he managed to say it. “If it bombs, you don’t have to see him again.” 

Sherlock immediately shakes his head. “No. Too risky.” 

“As he’s the one with the considerably larger reputation here, I’d say that he’d be the one taking the bigger risk, especially as it’s definitely not public knowledge that he’s into men in the first place,” John points out. “It’s a _drink_ , Sherlock. And if he kisses you at the end – I mean, I saw you kiss Janine. I know you know that much.” 

Sherlock reddens again. “Not really,” he mutters. “I mostly – just sat there and let her do it. I wouldn’t want it to – to be like that.” 

John surrenders the point. “I see. Okay, then. Then I guess it can’t work.” 

Sherlock hesitates, then swallows. “Unless you would… show me,” he says, so inaudibly that John almost doesn’t catch it. 

His jaw nearly drops. “What?” He recovers. “ _Show_ you – how to kiss?!” 

Sherlock’s cheeks are still flushed. “It was just a thought,” he says stiffly. “There’s really no one else I could ask, and you have the – relevant experience. Plenty of it,” he adds, in a dig. 

John has the wit to realise that the dig is coming directly from how defensive Sherlock feels in discussing the entire subject, and this particular suggestion especially. “You’re – you’re serious,” he says, to confirm. 

Sherlock shrugs, his shoulder spiking into the tense air surrounding them. “If you’re so intent on my going on this date, I would have thought you’d be more enthusiastic to help me develop the necessary skill set,” he says, his entire demeanour gone prickly. “However, forget I said anyth – ”

“Stop!” John cuts him off, but Sherlock already on his feet. John looks up at him, his fingers gripping the arms of his chair. He swallows, then nods. “Yeah,” he says, his throat strangely dry. “If you want me to teach you what, er – what you need to know… I can do that.” 

For a moment Sherlock doesn’t react, staring down at him with enough intensity to burn into John’s forehead. “You’re a good friend,” he says, his lips pressing together after. 

John nods toward the phone in Sherlock’s hand. “Text him back,” he says, his voice coming out a bit gruff. “Let’s get you a date first. No sense putting the cart before the horse.” 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

 

The following afternoon, John tries to talk himself out of feeling strangely nervous about this. It doesn’t have to be awkward. It will only be awkward if he’s awkward about it. He’s doing this to help Sherlock, as a good friend. As the only person Sherlock could possibly ask to coach him in how to kiss properly. Well – kiss and who knows what else. They’ll just have to see how tonight’s drink goes, John reasons. He’s given his word to help Sherlock figure out whatever he needs to know so as to navigate this drink, and potentially further dates. John has no idea how long Corey Graham plans to be in London or if there are any real possibilities of this becoming an actual Thing. No point obsessing over that just yet, he tells himself. 

Once the kettle’s boiled, he makes a pot of tea – not procrastinating, of course. It just might be nice to have on hand. That’s all. He picks up the pot and two clean mugs and carries them over to the coffee table, where he’s already set out the milk and sugar. Sherlock is sitting at the desk, typing on his laptop and studiously ignoring him. John clears his throat. “So, you want to get started, then?” he asks, as casually as he possibly can. 

Sherlock blinks and looks up, the blueish light from his screen illuminating his face oddly. “Oh – all right,” he says, and it sort of helps that he sounds as awkward as John is trying his best not to feel. He closes the laptop and gets to his feet. “Er – over there?” he asks, meaning the sofa, which John is standing in front of. 

John sits down and pats the cushion next to him, nodding. “Yeah, come and have a seat,” he says. “I made tea.” 

Sherlock nods automatically, but doesn’t say anything. He swallows, runs his fingers through his curls, then comes over and sits down. He clears his throat nervously. “This is – even stranger than it sounded when I asked last night,” he admits. 

John smiles wryly. “That’s true enough.” He pours them each a cup of tea, doctoring each one accordingly. “Why don’t we start with any questions you might have?” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says slowly. He thinks for a moment. “How do you know when a kiss is supposed to happen? Who’s supposed to initiate that? How is that communicated?” 

John smiles at the teapot, then sits back and crosses his legs at the knee, balancing his mug on top with both hands. “Good questions. Honestly, that’s the most mysterious aspect of the entire situation. Once you’ve started kissing, you’re out of the danger zone. A lot of it is about non-verbal communication, though if all else fails, if you’re reasonably certain that the other person would like to kiss you and you want to kiss them, you could always just ask.” 

Sherlock frowns. “As in, ‘Can I kiss you?’” 

John nods. “Yup. The straight-up approach is always an option. Though not usually the most romantic one. If you want to confirm, though, that’s a good way to do it. If you’d rather not be the one to initiate it, that’s also fine. If you’re paying attention and looking for the signals, you should at least have an idea of whether or not the other person is interested in kissing you, though. And if you’d like them to kiss you, there are ways that you can make your interest in that known, too.” 

This doesn’t clear the confusion from Sherlock’s brow. “What if I’m not sure? On either count?” 

“Of your interest or his?” John decides to abandon his carefully gender-neutral terminology, since Sherlock is definitely going on a date with a male tonight. Sherlock nods, just a small dip of his head, so John shrugs. “If you don’t want to kiss, or be kissed, then you can also signal that. You don’t have to do a single thing you’re not interested in.” 

“Yes, but _how_?” Sherlock wants to know. “How do I signal – either of those things? What if I can’t read his signals?” 

“Well, again, you can always ask,” John begins, but Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Let’s say that I almost certainly wouldn’t initiate a kiss of my own accord. But by the time a kiss could reasonably be expected to occur – I would imagine toward the end of said date – and I were to decide that I was open to the possibility – how could I read whether or not he was? Or signal said interest myself?” he asks. 

John considers this, lifting his mug to his lips and blowing on his tea. “Body language throughout,” he says, then sips. It’s still very hot. “You’re an expert on that. You know – does he lean toward you, is his body language open, does he laugh at your jokes. Does he touch you in any way. That sort of thing. In this case, I think you can safely assume general interest as a basic given here, since he’s asked you out. You can signal your own interest back in all the same ways.”

Sherlock processes this, looking down at his hands, then reaching for his own tea. “Okay, but I touch people all the time without any such interest. How does one make this different?” 

“It’s all about intention, mate,” John says, then immediately reflects that ‘mate’ still doesn’t work. “Here, let me demonstrate.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says, and waits. 

“Let’s say you’ve got something on your hand,” John says. “A piece of lint or something.”

“Why would I have lint on my hand?”

“Just go with it,” John says, a hint of exasperation leaking into his voice. “I’d remove it like this.” He touches Sherlock’s hand briskly with one finger, as though moving the imaginary lint away, Sherlock’s eyes watching intently. “There: does that feel like I want to kiss you?” 

He shakes his head. “Not particularly.” 

“Okay, now this,” John says. He touches Sherlock’s hand in the same place with the same finger, only this time he keeps the touch gentle and slow, and looks at Sherlock’s lips first, then up into his eyes. 

Sherlock swallows, then nods. “I see,” he says. 

John stops touching him and puts his hand back on his own knee. “You try it. With the intention. Let’s say I’ve just said something funny. Laugh at whatever I said and then follow it up with a touch like that. You want the touch to say that you want to be touched in return.” 

Sherlock gives an incredibly fake laugh and touches him swiftly on the hand, avoiding eye contact entirely. 

John smiles nicely. “Good try. That laugh was totally fake, though, and you need to both slow down with the touch and make eye contact. Let’s try it again. Here’s my joke: ‘Well, that’s summer weather in London for you!’” 

Sherlock laughs, sounding more natural this time, and glances into his eyes. “It certainly is,” he says, his eyes betraying his nervousness, but then returning and lingering. The touch is soft, almost hesitant, but slower this time. 

Without meaning to react to it at all, John’s gut does a swoop. He swallows, blinking a few times to break up the intensity of their eye contact. “Yeah, that’s better,” he says. “Not exactly what I suggested, but still quite effective. Good job.”

Sherlock’s lips press together a little. “Thank you.” 

“So, imagine that it goes on that way throughout the drink,” John says. “After a bit, if you’re exchanging these small things – eye contact, small touches, et cetera, you should be able to feel whether or not there’s any chemistry. Then, come the end of the evening, or basically any opportunity where you’re out of the public eye – doubly so in this case, I’d guess – you can start looking for both opportunities for where a kiss could happen, so that you can decide whether or not you want to allow it when it comes, and signals that he’s wanting to kiss you.” 

Sherlock is paying close attention. “Such as?” 

“A silence,” John says. “A natural lull in the conversation in any secluded spot. It could even be in a taxi, or if he drives you back here or something, and walks you to the door. On a first date, usually there’s some sort of indication of how it went, such as a conversation that evaluates it, like one person saying that they had a good time, or someone suggesting plans for a second date. Or if it’s adequately obvious to both of you that it did go well and you’re feeling a pull for something more than a touch on the hand, then look for that tell-tale lull. It should come with some eye contact for sure – if you avoid looking at him, he’ll definitely think that you don’t want to kiss him.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says uncertainly. “Hypothetically, let’s say that I do, and it seems reasonably certain that he wants to. Do you have any – suggestions on technique, specifically? I would imagine that it should involve… more active participation on my part than what you observed with Janine.” 

“Er, yeah, that would be good,” John says, aiming for tact. Basically Sherlock just sat there with his eyes closed and allowed Janine to kiss him, as he recalls. “Um. You know, kiss back. Lean into it a bit – though not too much, either.” 

“What about – erm – tongues, and such?” Sherlock asks, clearing his throat. “How does one know if or when that should happen?” 

John struggles for a rational explanation on this one. “Well, usually it just sort of happens,” he says. “If it’s a quick peck, then it will be over before you know it, anyway. If he thinks the drink was nice but that he doesn’t want to see you again, or can’t because he’s going back to LA or whatever, but wants to be nice about it, he’ll probably kiss you on the cheek or else maybe a quick peck on the lips. If he’s genuinely into you, it would probably last a bit longer, and at some point he might be the one to, er, deepen it. Get tongues involved and that. It’s the sort of thing that you would understand was happening within nanoseconds and figure out, I promise.” 

Sherlock looks wholly unconvinced. His long fingers twist together. “Okay,” he says, even less certainly. “I think you may be overestimating how ‘obvious’ things of this nature may or may not be to me.” 

He looks so worried that John’s heart goes out to him. “Well, that’s where the practical aspect of this comes into play,” he says gently. “Some things just need to be hands-on learning experiences. So: let’s try to create a good pre-kiss moment, and when you think the time is right, kiss me. And then we’ll analyse it after and I’ll give you some gentle feedback, if you like.” 

Sherlock’s lips compress again, but he nods, actually looking a bit relieved. “All right,” he says. He glances into John’s eyes. “So: eye contact first,” he says. 

John smiles, keeping his tone kind. “That would be good, yeah.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock looks into his eyes and the sitting room becomes very quiet. He shifts his gaze from John’s right eye to his left, breathing audibly through his nose, his lips pressed together firmly. Then he leans forward and kisses John very briefly on the lips, retreating as quickly as possible. He opens his eyes, grimacing. “That was rubbish, wasn’t it.” 

It’s not a question. And it’s pretty much true, but John’s mouth is tingling regardless. He clears his throat. “It was a bit quick,” he points out. “Relax. It’s just me. Loosen your lips a bit. You want it to be soft. And a little longer. Let’s try it again.” 

Sherlock nods quickly. “Okay.” 

John smiles at him. “When you’re ready, then.” 

Sherlock glances hesitantly into his eyes, but only very briefly this time, moving swiftly in to kiss John again. He’s obedient to John’s suggestions, his mouth softer, the kiss lingering and rather sweet, and John feels heat swooping through him, pooling in his gut. Sherlock pulls away again, his tongue touching his lower lip. “How was that?” 

“Better. Yeah.” John nods. “You can also touch him, if you want to. Kissing is greatly enhanced by that.” 

Sherlock looks frustrated. “Okay,” he says. He rubs a hand over the back of his head, rumpling his curls. “Show me?” he requests. 

“Yeah. Okay.” John smiles again and nicely takes over. He reaches over and touches Sherlock’s hand the way he did before, just the back of his finger stroking over Sherlock’s knuckle. Then he leans in and kisses him, his mouth light on Sherlock’s. Sherlock is just sitting there, his lips tightening a little. John pulls back just far enough to murmur, “You can kiss back now.” Sherlock makes a sound to show he heard, and when their mouths meet again, he actually does kiss back. After a moment, John pulls away. “Good,” he says approvingly. “That level of response is good. If it’s less than that, it feels unenthusiastic on my end.” 

“I see,” Sherlock says, looking self-conscious. “But the tongue thing… I still don’t see how or where that would come in.” 

“I’m coming to that,” John promises. “Usually it goes in three stages: closed-mouth kissing, then open-mouthed kissing, then tongues, though every kiss is unique. This time I’ll initiate it, so pay attention and look for the signals.” 

“I hope they’re very clear,” Sherlock says dubiously, but he leans in dutifully, his eyes already closed, waiting. 

“I’ll do my best,” John says dryly, and kisses Sherlock again. It’s not exactly a hardship: if he’s honest with himself, he can admit that he’s thought about this more than once in the past. A _lot_ more than once. It’s far too enjoyable, getting to kiss Sherlock’s perfect cupid’s bow lips at last, after having stared at them and tried so hard not to think about it for literal years now. And all under the safe guise of coaching, too! He does his best to communicate clear intent through the kiss, leaning in a little harder, then puts his left hand on Sherlock’s face, angles his head further to the right, and lets himself catch Sherlock’s full lower lip between his. Just a little at first, then he does it again, sucking briefly. Sherlock catches on almost instantly, as John said he would, and mimics what he’s doing. John makes an approving sound into the kiss and opens his mouth a little more, their breath mingling. It’s good. It’s bloody good, even with Sherlock’s fumbling inexperience. If anything, that’s only adding to the overall sweetness of it, because the desire is clear even if the technique is uncertain. He puts his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, his hand cupping the back of his neck, and finds Sherlock’s tongue with his own. When they touch, Sherlock inhales sharply through his nose but doesn’t pull away. It still feels a bit artificial, but nonetheless extremely pleasant. Sherlock moves his tongue hesitantly against John’s and John rewards him by stroking his tongue over Sherlock’s in return. Sherlock’s hands come up to land lightly on John’s triceps, his fingers curling around John’s arms, his body pliant and willing in John’s light hold. 

When John brings it to a close, Sherlock stays where he is for a second or two, his eyes closed, lips still parted. Then he opens his eyes. “I see,” he says, and John sees his pulse beating visibly in that enviably long neck of his. “That was – enlightening.” 

John fights down the awkwardness. “See, you did know when the moment came,” he says, trying to stay in teaching mode. “That was really good!” 

“I was slow to touch you back, though,” Sherlock says critically. “I should have responded sooner.” 

“You were distracted by the tongue business,” John points out. “It’s a bit of a multitasking job, I’ll admit. You did fine.” 

Sherlock’s self-consciousness is evident. “Did I? Was it – passable?” He’s cringing, all of the lines around his eyes appearing as he squints at John as though afraid to look at him too directly. 

“More than,” John reassures him. “It’s – I mean, it’s pretty clear that it’s new for you, but as long as there’s sufficient enthusiasm, you should be just fine. It’s a balance – you don’t want to seem either like you’re limply just putting up with it, or like you’re gagging for it, either. Somewhere in between. That level was good, just now.” 

Sherlock looks somewhat reassured. “Okay,” he says. Then, “Thank you. Very much, John. I – this is above and beyond. I appreciate it.” 

John is touched. He clears his throat. “No problem,” he says. “What are best friends for?”

Sherlock looks down at his knees, his mouth open as though he’s about to say something else, but then he seems to decide against it. “I feel a bit better about the drink. Or not – better, exactly, but – more prepared.” 

“Good,” John says firmly, trying his damnedest to push down his internal jealousy. “And I would sort of assume that you wouldn’t need to worry about anything more than kissing for tonight. I mean, it’s just a drink, and who even knows how long he’ll be in town, right?” 

Sherlock nods. “Right.” He picks up his tea and gets to his feet. “Thanks again. And for making tea, too.” 

John tries a smile that doesn’t work all the way. “Of course,” he says. 

*** 

He tries to keep himself busy and distracted that evening, but he can’t help obsessively checking the time, his texts, even going the window once or twice to see whether a taxi might be pulling up to let Sherlock out – solo, preferably. And then, of course, when he’s in the loo and not even paying attention, the door downstairs opens at last. John subtly checks the time: it’s been over two hours since Sherlock left. He’s fiddling with a bag of loose tea in the kitchen when Sherlock arrives at the top of the stairs. 

“John?” 

“In here,” John says, and Sherlock appears in the doorway. “Thought I’d put the kettle on,” he explains, as though justifying himself. 

Sherlock nods, but doesn’t say anything, unbuttoning his coat. 

“So how was it?” John asks, trying very hard to aim for casual interest. 

“Good,” Sherlock says. “Quite good, actually…” 

He trails off, but doesn’t add anything else, so John prods. “Good!” he says, though something in his gut feels cold. “Tell me about it. If you want.” 

Sherlock steps out of his shoes, and if he’s bending to hide his face, he’s covering it well. “Well, I met him where he said. He has security. Not surprising, really. They were very discreet.” 

“Okay,” John says, pouring hot water into the teapot and nodding toward their chairs. “And? Tell me about the date itself!” He follows Sherlock into the sitting room, placing the teapot on the side table to let the tea steep as they sit down across from one another. 

Sherlock looks self-conscious, but a bit pleased, too. “I think it went well,” he says. “He was… surprisingly easy to talk to. I thought we wouldn’t have much in common.” 

This does nothing to ease the cold sensation in John’s belly. “Good,” he makes himself say. “What did you talk about?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “Oh, you know. His work. My work. What we like about our cities. Restaurants in London and Los Angeles. Current events, at least within my somewhat limited knowledge thereof.” 

John wonders privately whether Sherlock has told him about all of their favourite places, but decides firmly against saying anything about this. He nods. “Okay,” he says hollowly. “And – how did it end?” 

Sherlock clears his throat. “He had a driver with him, so he offered to give me a lift home.” 

John leans forward without realising it. “And?” he demands. 

Sherlock ducks his face. “And… he kissed me in the car before I got out. It was an SUV of some sort, shaded windows for privacy, with the driver separated, too.” 

“And – did you see it coming?” John asks. “Did you catch his signals?” 

Sherlock nods. “I think so. Yes. He definitely seemed interested. Not – pushy or anything. Just interested.” 

“How was the kiss?” John asks, needing to know. “Just short, or – ?”

Sherlock coughs and looks down at his hands. “It could have been shorter. It – it did progress a little, after the first one or two.” 

“Progress – to where?” John asks, almost unable to breathe. 

“I mean – the way you showed me,” Sherlock fumbles, glancing at him. “With – with our mouths open. Just for a moment or two. And then I got out.” 

John exhales hard and sits back again. “Wow,” he says. “And how _was_ it? I mean – did you like it?” 

Sherlock’s cheekbones flush and he nods. “It was – nice,” he says briefly. 

“Are you going to see him again?” John knows he’s pressing for too much, but he’s incapable of suppressing the question. 

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, sounding thoughtful. “He said he wasn’t sure how long he’ll be in London. I think he’d like to.” 

“And you?” The question is very direct, but Pandora’s box has been opened since their conversation last night, anyway – not to mention the kissing coaching. 

Sherlock nods at the teapot. “Pour us some of that, would you?” he requests. Then, as John’s occupied himself with doing that, he says, “I think so. Maybe. We’ll see.” 

An edge comes into John’s throat and he swallows hard against it. “Well then,” he says, his tone coming out with forced amiability that he’s not feeling at all, “You should get at least one more chance to practise your new skills.” 

He looks over at Sherlock to see if this will make him smile, but he doesn’t react apart from the crease that appears at the bridge of his nose. He looks as though he wants to say something, but avoids making eye contact and just makes a non-committal sound. He accepts his mug of tea from John, then says, “Shall we watch the news?”

“Yeah, okay,” John says, almost relieved at the change in subject and the temporary end of this line of conversation. He reaches for the remote and switches on the telly and tries to ignore the fact that his heart is racing. He should be glad for Sherlock that he’s gone on a nice date – and with an internationally-known celebrity, at that. Everyone should have the chance to get properly kissed, and if one is going to kiss a man, Corey Graham is not exactly a bad place to start. He’s glad for Sherlock – genuinely glad. But his gut takes hours to unclench nonetheless. 

*** 

They get a case the next day, not a particularly difficult one, but John is glad that they have the distraction anyway, and privately trying not to be glad that it renders Sherlock unavailable for anything else until they’ve solved it. They don’t eat until midnight the first day, John making them a giant pan of scrambled eggs with cheese and another pan of bacon as Sherlock makes toast and tea to go with it all, wolfing down their breakfast-for-dinner ravenously and still talking about the case between bites. John staggers upstairs to sleep after, but leaves Sherlock jabbing at his laptop long into the night. He’s asleep on the sofa when John comes down to shower six hours later, his laptop open on the coffee table beside him. There are text alert notifications on the screen of his phone, but John makes himself not look at them as he quietly picks the phone up to plug into one of the chargers on the desk before taking himself off to the loo. Sherlock is awake and yawning over coffee when he comes out, stretching and getting up, saying something about taking a shower as John says hello on his way upstairs to dress. He grabs another slice of toast on their way out the door to head back out onto the case. They solve it close to midnight again, standing waist-deep in half-opened boxes in a storage facility somewhere along the South Bank and Lestrade is so grateful that he drives them home himself. They’re both so tired that they forego dinner entirely (there was a wrap that John picked up at a café in there, which he tried to make Sherlock share, but Sherlock was in body-as-transport mode and wouldn’t have any, too focused on the investigation) and go to bed. John says something vague about them going for brunch in the morning, by which he definitely means closer to noon, and Sherlock mumbles an equally-vague agreement and they part ways. 

They both sleep in, then go for brunch around eleven and spend the rest of the day around the flat. Sherlock actually does the dishes without being prompted, so John takes it upon himself to clean the loo and gets out the vacuum cleaner to do the sitting room, then puts in a load of laundry downstairs. He hears Sherlock’s phone buzz a few times, but steadfastly ignores it. If Sherlock wants to tell him who he’s texting, he will. 

Sometime in the late afternoon, Sherlock gets another text. He smiles upon reading it, which makes John instinctively apprehensive. “We haven’t got anything on tonight, have we?” Sherlock asks lightly, glancing up. 

“No,” John says. “Not to my knowledge.” 

Sherlock hesitates. “In that case… I may go out for dinner.” 

John makes himself not react. “With Corey?” 

Sherlock nods. “He’s found a place he wants to try. I’ve never been there. Could be interesting.” 

He’s trying very hard to sound casual, so John tries to match his tone. “Could be,” he agrees. “What’s it called?” 

“Chez Gérard,” Sherlock tells him. “It just opened last month, apparently.” 

John nods, digesting this. “You’ll have to tell me how it was,” he says. “Along with the report, after.” 

Sherlock gives a small smile and looks back down at his screen. “Could be another chance to practise my skills,” he says, a dimple forming in one cheek. 

John looks at his mouth and silently wants to kiss it again, touch that dimple with his fingers. Or his tongue. (Stop, he tells himself.) “Exactly,” he says instead. “It’s great that he’s still around and wants to see you again.” 

“Seems he’s sticking around for a bit, actually,” Sherlock says, not quite succeeding at imparting this news as lightly as he’s attempting to. He clears his throat. “He – said, yesterday. In a text.” 

“Oh?” John raises his eyebrows. “What for? Has he got a film to shoot here or something?” 

“No, but his next big thing doesn’t start shooting until summer, so his schedule is a bit flexible at the moment, evidently,” Sherlock says. “He’s rented a condo.” 

A condo. That means that Corey Graham won’t just be in London for a few more nights or something. John swallows. Well: maybe it’s just a short-term rental. One week or something. “I see,” he says. He fidgets with a spoon that Sherlock missed when collecting dishes from around the sitting room. “Well, I hope you have a nice dinner. Are you meeting him there?” 

Sherlock nods. “What do you think I should wear?” 

Somehow, this makes John relax. At least his knowledge is still considered important here. (At least he’s still needed for something, he tries not to think.) “Let’s go and see what the possibilities are,” he says, uncrossing his legs and getting out of his chair. 

*** 

The door downstairs opens and Sherlock’s footsteps hit the stairs. John clears his throat and exits out of the porn he was just contemplating giving a watch, not that Sherlock won’t somehow find it and know anyway, later. At least he’s stopped pointing it out in this whole new phase of their living together. He’s learned some things, at any rate. 

“John!” He arrives at the top of the stairs out of breath, his coat unbuttoned and hair slightly dishevelled. 

John looks up, blinking. “I’m right here,” he says, frowning at Sherlock’s state. “What’s – ” He stops, his eyes dropping without meaning to and getting stuck just below Sherlock’s waist. There is a definite bulge in his trousers and suddenly John has to swallow. “Er – what’s – going on?” he manages, sounding half-strangled. 

Sherlock rakes all ten fingers through his hair. “I – I need more information,” he says, sounding distraught. “And possibly more coaching.” 

More coaching. Alarm bells jangle faintly in the back of John’s mind. “Erm, okay – look, just, er, just calm down,” he says. “What happened? Take your coat off,” he adds. 

Sherlock swallows visibly. “I – would rather not.” 

It takes every ounce of strength he possesses, but somehow John manages not to laugh at this. No point upsetting Sherlock still further by pointing out that he’s already aware that he’s turned on at the moment. He clears his throat. “Okay, then… do you want to sit down?” 

“Not yet.” Sherlock tugs his coat closer around himself, looking defensive. 

“All right. Okay. Just – back up. How was the date?” John asks, still in his chair, Sherlock standing just inside the open door to the flat. 

Sherlock still looks self-conscious. “Good. Yes. Very good. The restaurant was, too.” 

“What did you have?” John asks, not so much out of interest as an effort to get Sherlock to stop being so flustered. 

“Lobster bisque and coq-au-vin, with tarte tatin. And a lot of very good burgundy,” Sherlock says, already sounding a bit calmer. “It was very good. You’d like it there. We’ll have to go sometime.” 

John waits a moment, then lets the smirk form at the corner of his mouth. 

“What?” Sherlock asks, the crease appearing at the bridge of his nose. 

“Nothing,” John says. “Just – that’s an interesting choice of main dish. If I may.” 

Sherlock begins to laugh through his nose, and the tension leaves his shoulders. “Fair,” he says ruefully. “I didn’t even think of that at the time.” He comes over to sit down across from John, though he leaves his coat on. 

“I suppose, having gone on a date with a man in the first place, one could probably pre-assume interest in cock as a given,” John offers, and Sherlock’s mouth twists, half-smiling and half not, still self-conscious. 

“Possibly,” he admits. And just like that, it’s out there: his open acknowledgement that he _is_ into that. 

John clears his throat. “So what happened?” he asks. “Dinner was good? You were still able to find things to talk about?” 

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says, almost dismissively. “That part is actually easy. Well – most of it is, now that it’s started. I mean – I still don’t know what I’m doing, but you were right in that the cues are easier to spot than I realised. For the conversational parts, at least.” 

“And – what about the physical stuff?” John asks, reminding himself inwardly that he’s asking as Sherlock’s official coach for this thing. “Was there more of that subtle touching during dinner?” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. More of it than the other time. Just – small things, but it was… recurring.” 

“And you touched back?” John asks, curious. 

Sherlock clears his throat and glances down at himself, his coat still shielding his entire midsection “Yes.” 

“So, overtly signalling that you wanted him to kiss you again,” John says, almost as a tease, and ignoring the tension in his gut. 

Sherlock doesn’t respond immediately, looking into the cold fireplace. “I suppose you could put it that way,” he says, a bit aloof now, and John feels instantly badly for the tease. 

“As you should,” he says reassuringly. “I mean – if you liked it the other night and wanted it to happen again, why not?” 

Sherlock glances at him but doesn’t say anything, stretching out his fingers and looking at them as though examining his nails. 

“So – what happened after dinner?” John presses. “I mean, did he? Kiss you again? How did you get home?” 

“He drove me,” Sherlock says. “He’s rented a car. He sent his security people home for the night and said he would drive me. The restaurant has a cloak room, though, and when I told him there weren’t any cameras in it – there was one over the entrance, but not inside – he kissed me in there. It’s actually sort of fun, avoiding the cameras. You and I are particularly adept at it, but he’s also pretty good at keeping himself from being spotted.” 

“No flocks of adoring fans following him around?” John finds this somewhat hard to believe. Corey Graham is a _huge_ star. How does he manage to avoid the attention? 

Sherlock shakes his head, though. “Maybe his security team scares them off. I don’t know.” 

“Okay, so he kissed you in the cloak room,” John says, getting back to the point. “Just – briefly, or – ?”

Sherlock’s mouth quirks into a smile in spite of himself. “Not that briefly,” he admits. “It went on for a bit. Ten to fifteen seconds, approximately, if you’re looking for specifics. Any longer would have definitely risked him being seen. Anyway, his security detail saw us to the car and then he dismissed them for the night and drove me back here.” 

John watches him. “And – that’s it?” 

Sherlock clears his throat. “Erm, no. He stopped down the street, out of the light, and turned off the car. I knew he was going to kiss me again, and he did. And – it was good. I – yeah.” 

John waits a tactful moment or two, but when Sherlock doesn’t go on, he prods. “But?” he says gently. 

“He… touched me. My face and chest, and he kissed my neck,” Sherlock says, speaking quickly and sounding miserably uncomfortable saying it out loud. “And that was – it went on for a little while and I was trying to – do the same sort of things in return, but – ”

He stops again. John imagines the whole scene vividly and thinks he understands. “But you got aroused,” he says softly. 

Sherlock looks up at him, red in the face, and doesn’t deny it. “I panicked,” he says, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “I just – I just abruptly stopped kissing him, said goodnight, and all but bolted from his car.” 

John’s heart goes out to him. “Yeah, I get that,” he says, feeling real compassion for Sherlock. “You maybe weren’t expecting it to escalate that quickly.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, still flushed. “You must think – it must sound so juvenile to you. At my age.” 

“But you’re completely inexperienced,” John points out gently. “Age doesn’t come into it.” 

“John – ” Sherlock sounds agonised. “I want to – be able to handle this, next time. If there is a next time. I want to know what to do. I know it’s asking a lot, but you did say that you would teach me… would that extend to this?” 

John takes the question without flinching. Somehow he already knew, back when he first agreed to it, that this situation could come up, and he knows now that he was already prepared for this possibility then. He nods, just a jerk of his chin, but his voice fails very slightly and comes out half in a whisper. “Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I can – do that.” (God, get it together!) He clears his throat and it helps, his voice coming out steadier now. “Tell you what: why don’t we recreate the situation, but we’ll talk through it. That can be the problem when these types of situations get going: once it’s started, the talking stops, and it’s pretty important. So you and I will discuss as we go so that you can have a chance to assess, process, recalibrate if need be. Sound reasonable?” 

Sherlock nods immediately, looking relieved again. “Yes. Okay.” 

John nods toward the sofa and they both get up and go over to it, Sherlock finally shedding his coat. They sit down in the same positions as the kissing coaching the other night, only with John on the right to mimic Sherlock and Corey’s positions in the car. “Okay,” John says, trying his damnedest to sound detached and casual. “So you’re here in the car. Kiss me the way you were kissing him, starting from the way it started with him.” 

“Well, he kissed me, but – all right,” Sherlock says. “Erm – put your arm around my shoulders.” 

John curls his left arm around Sherlock. “Like this?” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes.” He leans in swiftly and kisses John. 

John prevents himself from reacting in surprise, but it’s difficult: Sherlock is already ten times more confident about this than he was the other night. A stab of jealousy pierces through him as he realises that every increment of Sherlock’s progress here happened at the hands – and mouth – of Corey Graham. He thinks of missing that progress with a pang, and yet he was still the first to kiss Sherlock – for real, at least. Janine doesn’t count. He’s the first person that Sherlock has kissed properly, not that it really matters. He makes himself focus on the moment at hand and pulls away after a moment, just far enough to ask, “So when did it – ”

“Soon,” Sherlock says. “About now.” He’s the one to close the distance again, his mouth on John’s before John can move to do so, but John recovers and begins to lip at Sherlock’s mouth, and this time there’s no nanosecond of adjustment on Sherlock’s part – he’s right there, in sync with him. 

“Touch me the way he touched you,” John murmurs when he gets an opportunity to. “And I’ll do the same to you.” 

Sherlock makes a sound of agreement and seals their mouths together again. His hand comes out to cradle John’s face, then he pulls his mouth from John’s and breathes warmly onto his throat before kissing it, and John feels his own pulse thudding clearly against Sherlock’s lips. John inhales deeply, then shifts to do the same thing to Sherlock, sucking at his neck and throat and jawline. He’s got no idea how good a kisser Corey Graham is, but John imagines that he’s had _plenty_ of opportunities to hone his skills. He can’t possibly compete in any category – his looks, his money, his fame, his ability to actually capture Sherlock’s attention and attraction, a seemingly super-human feat – but he’s going to at least try to hold his own here. He moves his hand from Sherlock’s neck down to his chest, grasping at his pec, and Sherlock inhales sharply. “Yes – like that,” he says tightly, his voice breathy. “I mean – that’s what he was – ” He exhales and reaches to stroke John’s chest similarly. 

John presses a kiss to the underside of Sherlock jaw and murmurs, “So tell me when you start feeling aroused, or panicked.” 

“I’m – I’m definitely the former,” Sherlock gets out, not trying to hide the fact that he’s breathing hard. “Tell me what to do from here.” 

John pulls away and glances down, and sure enough, Sherlock is definitely aroused again – or still, maybe. He doesn’t know. “Did he touch you?” he asks, not specifying where, but he thinks it’s pretty well indicated at this point. 

Sherlock hesitates. “No, but his hand was on my thigh – about here,” he says, taking John by the wrist and placing his hand high on his inner thigh. “I somewhat assumed that to be an indication of intent.” 

John searches his eyes. “And about when you panicked, I’m guessing?” 

Sherlock bites his lip. “Yes.” 

“So then, the question would be what you’d like to have happen,” John reminds him. “There are no expectations. I would agree – putting a hand here would be my way of silently asking how much the other person is up for, too. Do you think he realised that you were – ?” He nods obliquely toward Sherlock’s visible erection. 

Sherlock exhales, wincing. “I don’t know. Maybe. Possibly.” 

“Okay,” John says, trying to ignore the fact that he’s not exactly soft, either. “So then the question is – ”

“Let’s assume interest on my part, given the circumstances,” Sherlock interrupts. “I know that it’s – optional. I just don’t know what to do if I _do_ want it.” 

“Right, okay,” John says quickly. “Well – if he’s already got his hand here, he’s asking. So you can either agree to let him touch you, and indicate it by – I don’t know, getting closer, though you were in a car, so there’s only so close one can get – or by moving his hand directly to where you want it, or else by touching him in a similar way as your own request. Why don’t you try one of those things?” 

Sherlock looks uncertain. “Is any one of them a better option, particularly?” 

“No,” John says firmly. “You can absolutely just let him touch you, since this hand here definitely indicates that he wants to. Or if you’d rather be touching him at the same time, then you can initiate that, too. It’s up to you. You’ve got options and you should choose whichever one feels best to you.” 

Sherlock hesitates. “Okay,” he says. “Er – then let’s resume where it left off.” 

“Sure.” John leans back in and kisses Sherlock on the mouth, letting his fingers tighten a little, squeezing Sherlock’s slim, well-muscled thigh. 

Sherlock responds by letting his legs fall open subtly, and reaches over to cup John’s ribcage as he was before, then allowing his hand to slide down to rest on John’s hip. 

John pulls away a bit. “Good,” he says, his heart thumping, his jeans decidedly too tight in the crotch about now. “Good cue on your part, too. I’ll – just keep going, then, but if you want it to stop at any point, just say the word.” 

Sherlock nods. “Okay.” 

He turns his head and their eyes meet, and this time the kiss happens jointly, both of them leaning in for it, both their mouths open, tongues warm against each other’s. John turns sideways a little, and lets his hand shift up to the seam of Sherlock’s trousers. It’s very warm, the material pulled tight over his arousal. He feels Sherlock inhale sharply through his nose, but instead of pulling away as John thought he might, he kisses harder, his tongue pushing into John’s, and rubs at the hardness in John’s jeans with the back side of his hand, then turns it palm forward and cups him, squeezing gently. If he’s surprised to find John hard, he doesn’t indicate it. 

He breaks away, panting, the colour high in his cheeks. “You’ve – got to tell me what to do,” he stammers, as nervous as John’s ever heard him, but plenty turned on, too. 

John nods rapidly. “I will. You’re – you’re doing just fine so far,” he says, a bit breathless himself, and then Sherlock’s tongue is in his mouth again. He abandons caution and rubs Sherlock’s cock through his trousers, letting his own thighs spread as far as he can. Sherlock’s hand on him feels bloody good, and he’s canting into the touch. He thumbs open the button of Sherlock’s trousers and makes a questioning sound into his mouth. Sherlock makes a definitely affirmative sound in response, so John manages the zip one-handed and slips his hand into Sherlock’s briefs and finds his cock, hard against his palm, and his own hardens tangibly just at feeling it. 

Sherlock breaks away with a gasp so intense that John is almost concerned. 

“Okay?” he asks, opening his eyes to check. 

Sherlock can’t seem to speak, panting shallowly, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. He nods, though, so John goes on touching him. Sherlock remembers himself after a second or two and reaches over with both hands to get John’s jeans open, mimicking John in reaching directly down to grasp at his cock, pulling it out of his underwear and stroking it. 

John’s eyes just about roll back in his head. He’s never had someone touch him so firmly and so competently right from the first touch, nor has he ever had such a _large_ hand touching him, and honestly, it feels divine. With his free hand, he pulls Sherlock’s face back to his and kisses him deeply, hungrily, and Sherlock kisses back with equal strength. The sitting room is filled with the sounds of them kissing and jerking each other off, hands down each other’s trousers, and it’s phenomenal. There’s no other word for it. It feels so good that he could almost cry. His balls are high and tight and full and his cock is practically singing in Sherlock’s grip, leaking moisture and about to go off like a rocket. He wants to get Sherlock there first, though, so he moves his mouth to Sherlock’s throat again and goes harder, adding a twist that he’s always liked doing on himself. Sherlock’s cock is wet, too, the slick of it making John’s hand glide more easily, and then suddenly Sherlock goes rigid, his hips jerking forward, his breath going high and then stopping in his throat as his body convulses. He comes in several spurts of hot wetness that fills John’s hand and lands on his sleeve, then slumps back against the sofa cushions for a moment, panting and panting. He doesn’t forget about John, though, and carries on with what he was doing, his hand tightening on John’s cock in a renewed grip. John’s only seconds away from it – witnessing Sherlock’s first orgasm at someone else’s hands is incredibly arousing and he’s absolutely gagging for it now. He pants out an encouragement or two and Sherlock takes it all on board, going faster and harder at John’s barely-articulate directions, and John comes a second later, shouting and shooting off absolutely everywhere, pleasure swamping his body and arcing wetly out of him. 

He comes to himself a moment later, gasping, side-by-side with Sherlock on the sofa, their shoulders leaning together in companionable closeness as they recover from their joint orgasm. “That was… incredible,” Sherlock says, sounding dazed and still panting. “I think I owe you an apology. I may have significantly underestimated sex, after all.” 

For some reason, this makes John start to laugh, and it comes out high and silly, and this makes Sherlock laugh, his face sheepish. “About time you figured that out,” John says, still slumped back against the sofa cushions. He looks over at Sherlock. “Feel better about this? Or – readier for next time?” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. I think so.” He hesitates. “Thank you, John. Again. Thank you.” 

John smiles back at him, some of the pangs of jealousy returning. He nods, not sure what to say to this. Surely a _What are friends for?_ would sound ridiculous here. “I, er, think I’ll call it a night,” he says. “I’ll, erm, just clean up a bit. I think I got the coffee table.” 

This piques Sherlock’s interest and he sits up to inspect the damage. “Oh yes, you did,” he says. “Well done.” 

“Well done, _you_ ,” John points out with a wry smile. “That’s your doing, right there.” He reaches for several tissues from the box on the coffee table and wipes away his mess before it can dry. 

“I suppose it is,” Sherlock says, looking modest. He looks down at his shirt. “You’ve made a mess of me, too.”

“Well, that’s why we do laundry,” John says lazily. “And since I already did a load today, you can do the next one.” 

Sherlock nods. “That’s more than fair, considering.” He looks up at John, who has just got to his feet. “Can I just ask – ”

John stops and looks down at him. “Yeah? What?” 

Sherlock’s lips purse a little. “I – literally got out of the car and made a beeline for our front door, there. Do you think I should – I don’t know, say something? Apologise for having left so abruptly?” 

“You might want to, yeah,” John admits. “Not apologise. I don’t think you owe him an apology for having got out when you did. But you could say something – you know, just to let him know that it wasn’t a problem. I get that you don’t want him to know how new this is for you. I really do. But just – something to give him a sign that you’re still interested. If you want to see him again, you could even suggest something?”

Sherlock nods. “Something proactive. Yes. I see. Thank you.” He looks up and their eyes meet, Sherlock’s face doing that thing where he looks strangely younger than his years. “Good night, John,” he says. 

There’s something behind his eyes that John can’t quite read. He tamps down the surge of affection that’s trying to rise, and reminds himself firmly that kissing Sherlock is once again off-limits, as the coaching exercise is now over. Of course it is. “Good night,” he says, and makes himself leave the room. Loo, then bed, and no stopping to chat. Otherwise things will just get – complicated. 

( _More_ complicated, that is.) 

***


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

 

“So, did you text him?” John asks the next morning, coming into the kitchen to find Sherlock drinking coffee and reading the papers. 

“Good morning,” Sherlock says evenly, turning a page. “There’s coffee. And yes, I did.” He picks up his phone. “Do you want to hear what I said?” 

“Oh – sure,” John says, surprised to be allowed in on this. He crosses to the coffee maker. “Let’s hear it.” 

Sherlock unlocks the screen with his thumb and reads the text aloud. “ _Hey, I just wanted to apologise for rushing off last night. Any chance you’re free tomorrow? SH_.” He looks up, shrugging. “You said I should be proactive. And I was aiming for a casual tone.” 

“That I did,” John confirms. “And you got it. It sounds good.” He thinks of the way Sherlock hasn’t signed his texts to him in years and allows himself to feel very slightly smug. Then again, Sherlock is actively propositioning a massive celebrity, an offer which will certainly be received with open arms, judging by Corey’s seeming enthusiasm for Sherlock in general so far. “Has he responded?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “I just sent it. I spent too long deliberating the specifics of the wording last night and finally decided to sleep on it.”

John wonders what the other possibilities were, but decides not to ask. “Okay. Well, I’m sure he’ll get back to you. I mean, what else has he got going on here? You said he’s not filming anything, right?” 

“Not that I know of. I’m sure he has other things to do. People to see. Someone like him must,” Sherlock says, not sounding as though he’s particularly bothered by this. “If he wants to respond, then I suppose he will.” He changes the subject. “Are you hungry?” 

“I am, a bit,” John says. “Shall we cook or go out? You choose.” 

“I was hoping there might be something on the blog for us, or anything of interest in the news, but there’s nothing,” Sherlock says, sounding almost forlorn about it. “So we might as well go out, if you’re free.” 

“I’m free,” John says, a little too quickly. It almost sounds defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be, if we haven’t got a case?” 

Sherlock blinks. “No reason,” he says carefully. “You could have plans that I don’t know about.” 

John snorts. “Oh, please. I just assume that I’ve got no secrets from you at this point. If I had plans, you’d have deduced them by the way my eyebrows look or something.” 

This makes Sherlock laugh, the sound welling up from his chest. “Don’t be ridiculous. How would the state of your eyebrows tell me anything useful?” 

“This, coming from the man who just recently deduced an affair based on bread crumbs,” John points out, referring to their last infidelity case several weeks back. 

“Her husband was celiac,” Sherlock protests. “It was obvious!” 

John is still grinning. “Whatever. That, or you could have just read my emails and texts. I fully expect it at this point. The point is, you know I haven’t got plans, so yes, let’s go out for breakfast. Where do you want to go?” 

Sherlock is still smiling. “What about The Atrium?” he suggests, referring to a newer discovery of theirs. It’s a fifteen-minute walk away, a pillared, light-filled room draped in blossom year-round, which is a bit much, but they’ve got the most delicious brunches in town, particularly on the sweet side. They also come with a hefty price tag, making it a somewhat occasional indulgence on their part. 

“Are we feeling rich?” John inquires dryly, but his mouth is already watering, though they _do_ have the almost comically inflated fee from Corey’s case, but he’d rather not think about that. “You know what, never mind: let’s definitely go there. Just saying the name makes me hungry for their dark chocolate pecan waffle.” 

“With the whipped cream and chocolate chunks scattered on top,” Sherlock remembers, closing his eyes for a moment. “But there’s also the apple cinnamon caramel crepes, don’t forget!” 

“Jesus. How could I?” John says in mock self-reproach. “Okay. Let me just hop in the shower and then we can go, unless you’re feeling particularly ravenous.” 

“You can shower,” Sherlock says graciously. “I can wait.” 

“I’ll hurry,” John promises, and he does. 

They’re on the pavement fifteen minutes later, the April sunlight warm. “It’s beautiful out,” Sherlock observes, glancing up at the sky. 

“That it is. Heard from Corey yet?” John asks, trying to couch it as casually as possible. 

Sherlock makes a vaguely affirmative sound. “Yes. While you were in the shower. Everything is fine.” 

“Good,” John says automatically, without really feeling it. “So – did he say anything about tomorrow?” 

Sherlock clears his throat. “In fact, he asked if I was free right now. I explained that I’m obviously not, so he asked about dinner. He followed that by asking if tomorrow is better, so I confirmed that it is.” 

John feels a bit uncomfortable. “Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry. You could have put me off. We can go for brunch anytime. I mean, we do live together and all that.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says, sounding a bit aloof. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Especially not when we’d planned to go to The Atrium. That would be more than unusually cruel.” 

John grins, as he was clearly meant to; Sherlock is obviously trying to alleviate the slight awkwardness with humour. It’s always been their go-to for dispelling a problem. “True,” he admits. “Well – thanks for that. I can’t believe you just prioritised brunch with me over plans with Corey Graham, though. Can’t say I’m not flattered.” 

Sherlock snorts and rolls his eyes. “Please. You’re my best friend. It’s hardly a – hardship. It wasn’t even a question.” 

The Atrium is within view now. John looks over at Sherlock as they walk and smiles. “Okay,” he says, and accepts it. At least Sherlock isn’t losing sight of this. That’s something. That’s a very large something, indeed. He changes the subject. “Don’t forget, they also have the waffles with fried chicken and brandy-spiked syrup,” he says. “I had that last time and it was amazing. You specifically wanted me to remind you about it.” 

“Oh God, how are we supposed to decide?” Sherlock moans. “We’ll simply have to order nine dishes and share them.” 

John is still laughing at this as he shoulders his way through the rather posh doors of the restaurant. He can’t compete with Corey Graham on any other level, but at least he and Sherlock have this: history, and in spite of all of their many problems over the years, a friendship that he can feel down to the bone. That’s one thing Corey’s fame, wealth, and ridiculously good looks can’t get, at any rate. 

*** 

Sherlock comes home later than John was expecting the next night. Then again, when he hears the door he’s just relieved that Sherlock came home at all. Given that probably all three of them were expecting something definitely sexual to occur following tonight’s date, that was never a guarantee. Sherlock’s step is rather light on the stairs and John is waiting and trying to look like he isn’t, sitting on the sofa with a crime series rerun playing. 

“Hey,” he says, muting the telly as Sherlock appears in the doorway. “How was dinner?” 

Sherlock smiles. He looks happy, a sparkle to his eye that John’s never seen before. “Good!” he says. He nods at the teapot on the coffee table. “Anything left in there? I could do with a cup.” 

“There is, but it’ll be cold by now,” John says. “I can make a fresh pot.” 

“No. I will,” Sherlock decides, stepping out of his shoes and coming to collect the teapot, his coat still on. 

Maybe he wants the distance, John thinks. Particularly as he knows John is about to ask him about the whole thing. “So,” he says expectantly. “Tell me everything.” 

The water is turned on, the sounds of the teapot being rinsed out coming from the kitchen. “It was good,” Sherlock calls over it, repeating himself. “He chose another good restaurant.” 

“Oh yeah?” John asks. “Where did you go?” 

“It’s called Rules. I’d heard of it. My brother likes it,” Sherlock adds, sounding slightly rueful at this. “Apparently it’s something of an institution. Someone recommended it to Corey and he wanted to try it.” 

“It was good, though?” John mutes the telly, giving Sherlock his full attention. “What did you have?” 

Sherlock comes into the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossing over his slender torso, his coat evidently having been left in the kitchen. He’s wearing the deep teal shirt John chose for him, tucked into a pair of finely-tailored black wool pants that are hugging his narrow waist. John surveys the ensemble critically and thinks that Sherlock looks very good. They chose well. “I had a pear, bacon, and walnut salad to start, then braised lamb shoulder, and coffee cinnamon marquise for dessert. It was delicious.” Sherlock snickers. “Corey wanted to try something ‘quintessentially British’, so he had steak and kidney pie.” 

John feels his eyebrows rise. “And? How did he like it?” 

“He was dubious about the kidney bits, but he did seem to like it,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. 

“Lamb shoulder,” John comments. “Must have been pricey.” 

Sherlock shrugs elegantly. “He was paying, so why not?” 

“Fair,” John concedes. “Whereabouts is this place?” 

The kettle comes to a boil and Sherlock points toward it and retreats to make their tea. “Covent Garden,” he calls, pouring hot water. “The condo he’s renting is close by.” 

Knowing that Sherlock knows the precise location of Corey Graham’s condo makes John’s stomach knot. “Oh?” he says, as casually as he can. Sherlock comes back out of the kitchen. “So – did you see it after?” John asks jerkily, the question coming out rather more directly than he intended. 

Sherlock keeps his eyes down, crossing the ancient carpet to set the teapot and two mugs down on the coffee table, but there’s a hint of smile in the corners of his mouth and he nods. “Yes.” 

John’s mouth is dry. “I’m assuming you got _that_ signal,” he says. “Inviting someone up to your flat after dinner is indicative of one pretty specific thing.” 

Sherlock’s lips twitch. “I did catch that, yes,” he says. He comes around the table and sits down on the sofa, much further away than during their two coaching sessions. He clears his throat. “I mean… it was fairly obvious that he wanted to do more than was possible during dinner. This time he _was_ recognised, even though he’d asked his people to call ahead and get us as private a table as possible. So it – the touching – was all quite subtle, but somehow that made it all the more obvious.” 

John can picture it. “Yeah, I can see that. So – how did the invitation come about?” 

“Oh, quite directly,” Sherlock tells him. He leans forward and pours a bit of tea into his cup, but it’s still pale, so he stops and sets the teapot down again. “It had come up in the conversation, my asking him where it was, and that led to him asking point blank if I wanted to come over and see it. It was only a five-minute walk from the restaurant.” 

“Ah.” John searches for the right way to ask his next question, but he can’t think of any way to couch it in less than completely direct terms. “And?” he says. “What happened when you got there?” 

“Well, we had to be fairly secretive,” Sherlock explains. “A reporter caught him as we were leaving and asked what he was doing with me. He said something about a small case we’d solved and then his security team intervened and we got away. They followed at a distance, just to make sure there wasn’t any other trouble, and then he sent them away when we got to the building. He’s staying on the seventeenth storey and there’s a nice view.” 

John thinks of the other nice views Sherlock probably got. “And,” he prompts, keeping his tone patient. 

Sherlock picks up the teapot and fills John’s mug. “And it was very much like your coaching,” he says, very quickly and avoiding John’s eyes. He fills his own mug, too. “He’d put music on, and we drank some wine. It was – nice.” 

John sees his Adam’s apple bob, still evading eye contact, and realises afresh how difficult it is for Sherlock to talk about this stuff. “How did you feel about it?” he asks softly. “I mean – did you like it? Were you… comfortable throughout?” 

Sherlock exhales through his nose and nods. “Yes. He was… patient. Not at all pushy. Very much a gentleman. Everything just – unfolded slowly and naturally. I mean, as you said, I was fairly clear on the notion that something along those lines was understood when I accepted the invitation to go over there. I was mentally prepared for that. Just not sure how it would actually go.” 

“One never can be,” John assures him. “Every situation comes about in its own way, unless one party is being pretty specifically manipulated, but obviously that’s not how it should be. So he poured some wine, put on some mood music, and then – ? Did you go into the bedroom, or…?” 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. It was on the sofa, like – like the other night,” he says, making awkward reference to their own exchange of hand jobs right here on this sofa. He clears his throat again and takes a sip of his very hot tea. “We just went on talking, and then there was a little pause, like you’ve mentioned, and I caught it. I knew he was going to kiss me before he did. It was similar to in the car the previous time, but closer this time since we weren’t in a car. Obviously.” 

John watches him closely. “And this time you didn’t panic,” he says. It’s not a question. 

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. As I said, I was prepared for it this time. Thanks to you.” His eyes flick up to meet John’s, a small smile forming on his lips. “It came about gradually, and when he… when he first touched me – ” Sherlock stops for a moment, and John understands precisely where Sherlock means from the delicate nuance to his tone. “I was ready for it. I – wanted him to.” 

John nods, too quickly. “Right. Yeah,” he says. “And – it was good? I mean… did he touch you the right ways? You liked it?” 

Sherlock nods again, his lips slightly parted as though he’s thinking of saying something about this, qualifying it somehow, but whatever it is, he doesn’t say it. “Yes,” he says instead. “It was good. And he seemed to like my – erm, my – what I did. To him, I mean. It was very much the way you showed me. At the same time. I preferred it that way – I was less self-conscious.” 

“I get that,” John says, meaning it. He picks up his own mug and takes a sip of tea. It’s a genmaicha, a green tea roasted with brown rice, and doesn’t need milk. It’s one of Sherlock’s favourites and he can understand Sherlock having this rather novel experience of having had some form of sex with what John supposes is his new boyfriend (does three dates make it a relationship?), then coming home to make one of his go-to favourite teas. It’s comfort. And maybe that’s what John is for him right now, too: comfort. The best friend and coach, there to help him process the entire experience. John feels another strong surge of warmth toward Sherlock. “I’m glad you liked it,” he says gently. “That’s great, Sherlock. Really great.” 

Sherlock smiles into his tea. “Thank you,” he says. “It’s entirely thanks to you that it – worked.” 

John thinks about leaning over to pat his shoulder, but thinks better of it. He nods instead. “Of course,” he says. Time to move into less dangerous territory. “Tell me the rest of it. What else did you order? What’s his condo like?” 

Sherlock relaxes visibly, and begins to describe the rest of the evening in vivid detail. John wants to ask him about the deeper things – how serious this thing with Corey Graham is, how Sherlock feels, how long he plans to go on seeing this superstar celebrity, what else he wants from the relationship. How John is meant to fit into the entire picture. But these are questions for another time. He tamps them down, and gives his full attention to what Sherlock is saying. 

*** 

The next morning’s headlines come as a surprise to John when he stoops to collect the papers from the front steps. It’s not in the _Times_ , but on the front page of Mrs Hudson’s _Daily Mail_. The headlines are large and proclaim _Miracle Man Corey Graham Dines in Covent Garden with London’s Own Sherlock Holmes_. John frowns at the paper, carrying it inside as though to shield it from being seen by people passing on the pavement, and squints at it in the dim light of the front hall as he pushes the door closed behind him. They’ve got a slightly-blurry photo of Sherlock and Corey at their table at the restaurant. Corey is talking and gesturing with both hands and Sherlock is leaning forward a little and smiling. It doesn’t look specifically romantic, John thinks critically. They’re not touching or anything. But Sherlock’s smile looks genuine, and they’re the only people at a cozy-looking table for two in a corner. He skim-reads the article, which is heavy on speculation, including several artfully-worded questions that cast pretty specific aspersions on the entire thing, and John is steaming. The article states that ‘neither Mr Graham nor Mr Holmes could be reached for comment’, as though anyone even tried! Of course, John supposes, someone could have called while Sherlock and Corey were otherwise occupied last night. He shunts down the petty thought with a touch of guilt and takes the paper with him upstairs. 

Sherlock is still in bed, which is unusual; he’s often up before John even on days when they’ve got nothing on, like today. At least, if nothing’s come up on the blog. John decides to check his own, as well as have a look at the online news to see if anything’s been reported there. He’ll wait a bit to see if Sherlock gets up soon, and if so, whether he wants to eat together or what. They usually do, after all. He scans the blog first and there’s nothing, but then, the bulk of their cases usually come through Sherlock’s blog. He’ll check that next. He wants to have a look at the news, though, and runs a google search on Sherlock and Corey’s names together, privately wondering whether Sherlock is sleeping better than usual having just had his first real shag. Of sorts. John sees the first search results, but it’s only the online version of the _Daily Mail_. So far, at least. He realises belatedly that actually, their second coaching session was Sherlock’s first sexual experience with another person, but it doesn’t really count if it was just practising, does it? Then again, he does still want to claim first real kiss, somehow. He supposes that if none of it is real, then none of it counts, with him. He sighs. 

Down the corridor, John hears Sherlock go into the loo from his room, closing the outside door as he always does. The water runs, then the toilet flushes and the shower turns on. John sits back in his chair and lets his thoughts wander, his coffee growing lukewarm in its cup. He takes this for granted now, that Sherlock and Baker Street will always be here. What if this changes things, though? He’s not expecting Sherlock to go running off to Hollywood in hot pursuit of a superhero action star, but then, he was hardly expecting Sherlock to start dating him in the first place. This casts a shadow on everything. 

His phone beeps with a text. It’s from his mother. _Want to come round for tea on Friday? Harry’s home from work about four that day._ Short and to the point, as ever. John hesitates, wanting to check with Sherlock first. Today is Wednesday. If things keep going the way they have so far, Sherlock will almost certainly have a date on Friday night. Will he even want to come to John’s mum’s for tea? He usually does, but now things are different. Nevertheless, he doesn’t want to accept before he’s checked with Sherlock. Mum gets impatient when he doesn’t respond right away, though, so he types, _Will check and let you know. If we haven’t got a case on, I expect it should work._

Sherlock comes out of his bedroom ten minutes later. “Morning,” he says, yawning. “Is that coffee?” 

John nods. “That nice dark roast we got at the farmer’s market the other weekend.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock sounds pleased and goes to find himself a mug. “You’re up early.” 

“You’re up late,” John counters. “Sleep well?” 

Sherlock glances back over his shoulder, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “I can hear what you’re implying, so stop it. But yes. I did.” 

John snickers. “Nothing wrong with that,” he says mildly. “Hungry?” 

Sherlock nods, turning around. His eye falls on the pile of newspapers. “What’s that? Why have you got Mrs Hudson’s – ” He stops, clearly spotting the headline. 

John clears his throat. “Yeah, about that… I saw it and I thought you should know. Just – in case it comes up or something. I don’t know.” 

Sherlock frowns at the paper, then picks it up and rapidly reads the flimsy article. “Oh, for God’s sake,” he says in exasperation. “As if they even tried to contact either of us!” 

Something about the way he says _either of us_ makes John’s gut clench. Normally the only ‘us’ in Sherlock’s life is the two of them. He swallows. “I know,” he says. “Paparazzi. They’re brutal. I mean, we’ve had our own dust-ups with them as it is. I imagine it’s much worse for the likes of Hollywood superstars.” He can hear what he’s doing: trying to compete, trying to reframe things as the two of them together and Corey as the outsider. Probably futile, but there it is. 

Sherlock’s phone starts to ring, sitting on the table. Sherlock touches it without picking it up and presses the button for speaker phone. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says. 

“Hey, it’s me,” says Corey Graham’s famous voice. He sounds apologetic. “Uh, have you seen the headlines?” 

“Yes, just now,” Sherlock says. He’s still standing there, holding his empty cup, John sitting across from him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Corey says. “I didn’t want you getting dragged into anything. Are you upset?” 

Sherlock frowns. “No, not at all. I’m more than used to the papers speculating about me. Though it doesn’t usually involve a major celebrity,” he adds thoughtfully. He pauses. “Are you? Upset, I mean?” 

“Upset? No, not really,” Corey says. “It’s just an inconvenience. I just wanted to let you know that my PR folk will probably be reaching out to tell you what you should say if anyone actually does contact you about it, if you don’t mind.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock says. “Is that all?” 

There’s a short pause on the other end. Then Corey says, “Yeah, that’s why I was calling. Although I could add that last night was pretty great. I can’t wait to get my hands on your gorgeous body again.” 

Sherlock looks mortified and looks at John, who covers his mouth to suppress his laughter. “Er – thank you,” Sherlock says, sounding half-strangled then immediately cringes at his choice of words. “Um – I – I’ll text you later, shall I?” 

“That’d be great,” Corey says warmly, then hangs up. 

“Oh _God_ ,” Sherlock moans, dropping into the nearest chair and burying his face in his hands. “That was beyond humiliating!” 

John laughs loudly at this, getting out of his chair and going around the table to Sherlock’s side. “I guess he didn’t realise he was on speaker,” he says, picking up the coffee pot and filling Sherlock’s still-empty mug. Sherlock doesn’t move, so John replaces the carafe and gives Sherlock’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. You handled yourself fine, and it’s nice to hear that he’s so into you. I’m glad for you. Really,” he adds, then silently asks himself why he added it. It makes it sound less sincere, and he _is_ glad for Sherlock. He goes back to his own side of the table. “So listen,” he says. “Headlines aside, you said you’re hungry. I haven’t eaten yet. Do you want to go out? Or should we avoid your new fans in the press and hole up in here and cook?” 

Sherlock finally puts his hands down, his face still red. “Could we order something in?” he asks. “I don’t much feel like cooking, but I’d also rather not go out just yet.” 

John blinks. “For breakfast?” 

Sherlock glances at the clock on the wall behind John’s head. “It’s half-past eleven,” he points out. “It’s arguably lunch territory.” 

John shrugs. “Fair enough. What do you feel like eating?” 

Sherlock considers, then smiles. “What about breakfast pizza? From Francesco’s?” 

John remembers. Francesco’s makes a slightly-odd breakfast pizza, with a hollandaise sauce base instead of tomato, then boiled eggs, bacon, sausage, and sliced tomatoes, topped with mozzarella. “I forgot about that! Sure, that’s a nice compromise. Let’s get it.” He smiles at Sherlock, who smiles back, and the tension dissipates again. “I’ll call and order,” he says. “You check your blog and see if there’s anything on for us.” 

*** 

The next morning’s headlines feature Corey Graham again, only this time John is surprised to see that he’s holding hands with Gaia Dawson-Smythe, an up-and-coming heiress starlet frequently seen in the tabloids for this or that. Standing on front stoop in his underwear and dressing gown, John finds himself scowling at the newspaper in his hands. _Corey Graham Spotted on the Town with Gaia Dawson-Smythe!_ The line beneath it reads _American Superstar Romantically Linked with British Heiress After a Cozy Dinner in Kitty Fisher’s (Mayfair)_. John feels his face flush with genuine outrage. How dare Corey Graham go slagging around with some young starlet like this? How dare he do that to Sherlock? He’s fuming as he goes back inside, closing the door with force behind him. He stops on the landing halfway up the stairs, though, not caring that he’s made off with Mrs Hudson’s _Daily Mail_ again, but suddenly wondering if he _should_ show Sherlock, as he was indignantly planning to. Would Sherlock be shocked? Heartbroken? (Please God, no.) Upset? John stands there, chewing his lower lip and debating internally. 

Sherlock suddenly appears at the top of the stairs, frowning. “John? What are you doing down there?” 

John looks up at him and feels guilt printing itself all over his face. “Sherlock...” He trails off, not sure what to say or how to say it. 

Sherlock’s frown deepens, then he spies the newspaper in John’s hands, the _Times_ and _Telegraph_ stuffed under his arm, and his brow clears. “Oh.” He beckons John upwards. “If that’s what I think it is…” Sherlock takes the paper from John’s unresisting hands when John reaches the top, confused, turning it around to face himself. He reads the headline without reaction, then looks curiously at John. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “You didn’t want me to see this? Or you couldn’t decide whether you should show me or not?” 

It’s as though Sherlock has read his mind. John nods, feeling stupid. “Somewhere in between those two, yeah,” he says. 

For a moment, Sherlock almost looks as though he pities him, only it’s kinder than that. “It’s all right, John,” he says, nicely enough. “I knew they were going out for dinner. It’s fine.” 

John hesitates, wondering if he should point out that Corey and Gaia are holding hands, his face bent toward her blond head as they exit the restaurant, both of them smiling. He decides abruptly against it. It’s Sherlock’s relationship to manage. If he wants advice or help, he’s certainly proven that he knows how to ask for it. “Okay,” he says uncertainly. 

Sherlock gives him an odd smile and doesn’t say whatever it is that he’s thinking. “You should give this to Mrs Hudson,” he says, his voice oddly gentle. “We don’t want a repeat of yesterday’s fiasco.” 

“No,” John agrees, the shrill pitch of Mrs Hudson’s voice still echoing in his ears from when she came up and discovered her newspaper on the kitchen table that evening, having already placed a phone call to the _Daily Mail_ ’s office to complain about its missed delivery. “I’ll just, er – ”

Sherlock nods. “Good,” he says. “Hurry. I’ve just poached eggs for eggs benedict, with smoked salmon and that fresh dill we bought. They’re keeping warm in the oven but we should eat them. I’ll just put the toast on.” 

John feels his heart lift. Sherlock’s eggs benedict are legendary, or would be if anyone in the world had even eaten them besides himself. He feels a stab of jealousy as he wonders if Sherlock will make them for Corey one of these days. “Okay,” he says, his voice sticking in his throat. “I’ll be right back, then. I’ll hurry.” 

Sherlock smiles at him approvingly, and John turns and hastens back downstairs, his heart still thudding hollowly in his chest. 

*** 

That night, John’s only just gone to bed twenty minutes ago when he hears Sherlock’s footsteps coming up the stairs to his room. This is unusual: Sherlock usually only ever comes up to wake him for something case-related, otherwise giving him his privacy in a previously unheard-of act of courtesy. John is very much awake, sitting up in bed reading, wearing his usual pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt that’s worn through in places and thoroughly comfortable. 

He looks up when Sherlock knocks. “Come in,” he says, wondering what it could be about. 

Sherlock opens the door and slips through it, shutting it behind him and staying right there, not advancing into the room at all. “Er, hello,” he says, a bit awkward. “Did I wake you?” 

It’s obvious enough that he didn’t; the question is clearly just meant to be polite. John smiles at this. “No, not at all,” he says. “What’s going on?” 

“I’ve been thinking,” Sherlock says. He hesitates. “So… Corey’s asked me for dinner again tomorrow, at someone’s home. Friends of his, I gather.”

“Right,” John said. “Friday night. I rather assumed you might be going out with him again.” He waits. 

Sherlock bites his lower lip. “Erm… he said something about me coming to his place after again.” 

John nods. “Yes,” he says. “And…?” 

“And staying over,” Sherlock says, blinking rapidly. “I. Um. I’ve – agreed. But…” 

John understands instantly. “But you’re nervous about it,” he says, and Sherlock doesn’t deny it. John nods Sherlock over. “Come in properly,” he says, keeping his voice kind, and Sherlock comes over and sits on the edge of his bed. 

“I just don’t know what I’m doing,” he confesses, though it’s hardly new information at this point. “I mean – there are so many points of unfamiliarity. Unknown protocol. Using his bathroom. How it works to sleep with someone else. What you touch. What you don’t. Toothbrushes. Showers. All of it.” 

John nods, giving Sherlock a rueful smile. “It _is_ a lot,” he admits. “Especially when you haven’t done any of it before.” He thinks of Sherlock having never slept with anyone before, and feels a pang of pity for him. He’s missed out on so much. He should have this, damn it. Even if Corey Graham is sharing around his affections, if Sherlock still wants it from him, then he should get to have it. “So which bit is the most pressing?” he asks. 

Sherlock’s pause speaks volumes, and John immediately understands that it’s still the sexual stuff. Sherlock glances at him slantwise, blinking, his lips parting, the corners of his mouth framed in delicate question. “It’s – you’ll think this sounds ridiculous, especially given that he and I have already – but it’s…”

He trails off, so John prompts. “Spit it out,” he says gently. “Come on. You know you can tell me. I won’t think it’s stupid or juvenile or whatever. What is it?” 

“It’s… being naked in front of him,” Sherlock says, swallowing. He looks down at his lap, fingers twisting together. “It’s so – exposed. During our first coaching, you talked about intention. I’m realising now that – all those times before, when I would just wear a sheet around the flat or whatever – my very lack of intention made the action – safe. I didn’t care; therefore my own nudity didn’t matter. But now it matters, and now I feel self-conscious about it.” 

“Ah.” John does see. “Yes. Okay.” He takes a breath, considering his words, then says, carefully, “Well then, like everything else, I think it has everything to do with timing and comfort. If you’re not comfortable with it, then don’t do it. It’s that simple. Or if you want to try it, but you’re not sure how you’ll feel in the moment, make sure that it doesn’t go any more quickly than you’re comfortable with. And you know you’re always allowed to stop, or to change your mind.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says. He glances at John through his eyelashes again, causing John to wonder if he even has any idea what sort of effect that has on him. Probably not. “It’s not a question of not wanting to, to be clear,” Sherlock tells him. “It’s more that – that I don’t want him to know that it’s my first time doing that. But if it _is_ my first time, I don’t see how I can possibly disguise the fact. It was one thing on the sofa the other night. We were still dressed, like you and I were. I was mostly covered, with a very singular exception.” 

His face is flushing, though he determinedly finishes the sentence, and John feels his own face heat, just thinking of Sherlock sitting on Corey Graham’s rented sofa, his cock sticking out and nothing else. He swallows some of the saliva that’s gathering in his mouth, and suddenly thinks he’s got an inkling of where this conversation may be headed. “Right,” he says. “So… are you saying that you want to… er, practise being naked with someone?” 

Sherlock almost winces. “I would… specifically like to practise having a naked sexual encounter,” he says, bracing himself visibly as though afraid that John will react with horror or anger. Or laughter. His lips compress and he looks down at his hands again. “There’s – there’s no other way to practise this, except in actually doing it. You know I wouldn’t ask if there were.” 

“No, I know,” John says quickly. “And – you know what, I get it. I honestly do.” 

Sherlock looks at him keenly, scanning his face and eyes for any sign of insincerity. When he doesn’t find any, he takes a deep breath. “You’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for,” he says intensely. “I mean that, John. The very best.”

John smiles, a bit crookedly. There’s nothing safe that he can say to this, so he aims for levity instead. “Sexy talk, that,” he says with a wry smile. He clears his throat. “If we’re going to role-play this one, then we’ll have to work at creating the right atmosphere.” 

Sherlock nods, his relief palpable. “Yes. Okay. What should I do?” 

“Again, we should talk through this,” John says, trying his best to frame this as another coaching session. “Agreed?” 

Sherlock nods again, obedient. “Agreed.” 

“You can start by kissing me, then,” John says. “No, wait – let’s recreate a sofa moment.” He scrambles out from under his blankets and sits down on the edge of the bed beside Sherlock. “There we go. Now.”

Sherlock leans over and kisses him without hesitation, and although there’s good deal of embarrassed relief in it as well, it barely even feels feigned, John thinks. It’s a good kiss. A very good kiss. Sherlock’s mouth is strong on his, their mouths opening right from the outset. Sherlock’s hand comes out and grasps at John’s chest, rubbing and squeezing it and John feels himself exhale through his nose, a little harder than he meant to. The kiss grows and deepens, John leaning in harder, still privately determined to at least match Corey Graham when it comes to kissing, if nothing else. He wonders jealously how Corey’s cock is, though the only one he’s personally interested in at the moment is right here beside him, sitting on his bed… He’s touching Sherlock’s chest, too, loving the way his nipple has stiffened beneath the flimsy t-shirt he’s got on. Pace it, he reminds himself sternly. This is a lesson, after all, not – whatever he’d very much prefer it to be. It’s not that, so he’s got to maintain some level of detachment. (Right.) Sherlock seems to be the one pushing it, though. His hand is on John’s thigh, his long fingers tightening. 

John breaks away from the kiss, attempting to rein himself in. “Before it gets too – involved, maybe we should take our shirts off?” he suggests. “Ease into the nudity aspect.” 

Sherlock nods quickly. “Right. Okay.” He pauses, his pupils dilated visibly. “How would you signal that?” he asks, touching his tongue to his lower lip. 

“If it were me, I might just suggest it straight out,” John says. “Or I might just start pulling at your shirt. Or take mine off first. Any of those.” 

“Okay,” Sherlock says. “But for now – do you just want to – ?” 

“Sure, yeah,” John says. He pulls his t-shirt off in one swift motion and tosses it on the floor. Sherlock swallows, looking uncomfortable and not removing his own, so John decides to make it easier for him. “Come here,” he says, his voice coming out a bit gruff. Sherlock leans in obediently and John starts to kiss him again, slower this time. He cradles Sherlock’s face with one hand and lets the kiss build naturally, deliberately trying to make Sherlock feel both safe and aroused through it. Safe has got to come first, though. He needs to feel like it’s going to be okay to bare himself this way, so John is gentle. He kisses Sherlock’s chin and throat and jawline, sucking at a patch of skin on his neck, then going back to Sherlock’s plush lips. And this time Sherlock’s mouth opens to him again, seeking, and John finds his tongue and caresses it with his own. His hands stroke over Sherlock’s long back, then slip beneath it to touch his warm skin. Sherlock inhales audibly through his nose but doesn’t pull back, letting his own hands transfer from John’s pyjama-clad hips to his back. John goes slowly, rubbing over Sherlock’s back, feeling the faint markings of his whip scars with his fingertips and swearing to himself all over again that he will never allow anyone, least of all himself, lay a hand on Sherlock with the intent to harm him again. He eases the t-shirt up over Sherlock’s head and arms, and Sherlock doesn’t resist this, either. Time to check in, maybe. He pulls away. “Okay so far?” he asks, searching Sherlock’s eyes. 

Sherlock’s pulse is beating visibly, a flush spread down his pale chest. He nods, his lips pressed together, seeming unable to speak. 

“Keep going?” John asks, wanting to be very sure before he does anything else. 

“Yes. Please,” Sherlock says, his voice a bit hoarse, so John spares him and closes the space between their mouths again. 

It’s pretty incredible, getting to do this with Sherlock, he thinks. The whole thing feels surreal, but this is already the third time they’ve done something like this. He can’t count how many times he’s kissed Sherlock now. It’s not enough by half, so he’s going to enjoy it while he can – but he can never lose sight of the fact that this is supposed to be a teaching moment, or that it’s meant to be making Sherlock feel more confident about his own skills and ability to be intimate with someone. John leans back and guides Sherlock down onto him with his hands, and after a brief moment of confusion, Sherlock catches on and goes with it. They’re both hard, the fact making itself immediately known through their two sets of thin pyjama bottoms as Sherlock lets his weight settle cautiously onto John. He exhales hard as their erections press together.

“Oh – that’s – ” he gasps out, his breath hot on John’s lips. 

John nods up at him. “It’s good,” he confirms, his own voice coming out rather breathless. “How’s this? Do you like – this?” He wanted to say _being on top_ , but he thinks that maybe that’s a whole other discussion. 

Sherlock nods. “Yeah.” His face drops then, kissing John again, and John can’t stop touching the bare skin of his back, finally allowing his hands to rove lower onto the firm, warm curve of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock moans into his mouth, his chest and stomach contracting as he breathes hard, and John’s cock gives a sharp twitch, hardening still more against the length of Sherlock’s. John hesitates, then slips his hands down inside Sherlock’s pyjamas and squeezes his arse. Sherlock breaks away from the kiss, panting. “John – I don’t – ”

John immediately removes his hands, feeling alarmed. “I’m sorry – did I – ”

“No,” Sherlock interrupts. “It’s just – I don’t know how to – how to move, or what to – would you show me, please?” 

By _show me_ , John thinks he maybe means to demonstrate. He nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Let’s, er, let’s turn over, then.” He waits for Sherlock’s nod, then tips him onto his back and climbs onto him. (Oh, God. It feels ten times better than he’s even let himself guiltily imagine, the heat of Sherlock’s hardness pressing into his.) “Touch me,” he says, his voice coming out low and sultry, and he kisses Sherlock again without waiting for his acknowledgement. 

Sherlock puts his hands directly onto John’s arse, pulling John into him, and John goes slowly so that Sherlock can understand as tangibly as possible what he’s doing, thrusting slowly against him in long, smooth, unhurried strokes, his hips rotating in slow circles. Sherlock pulls away from the kiss and nods. “Okay. Okay. Can I try it?” he asks, his voice punctured with breath. 

“Of course.” John rolls off him again, turning onto his back. He expects Sherlock to follow and reverse their positions, but he turns onto his side instead and looks down at John’s erection, now straining against his pyjama bottoms. 

He reaches over and carefully touches John through his pants, his fingers cautious but warm, his eyes flicking up into John’s. He doesn’t say anything, though, just watching John’s face with interest so intense that it takes John’s breath away, his palm and fingers slowly rubbing over the underside of John’s achingly hard cock. Then his fingers creep to the waistband of John’s pyjamas. “Can I…?” he asks, still hesitant. 

John nods, not saying that he thought Sherlock wanted to try humping him. “Anything you want,” he says, the words almost sticking in his throat. Maybe it will make it easier for Sherlock if he gets naked first. 

Sherlock’s lips press together again, and he slides his hand down into John’s pyjama pants, fingers finding and wrapping around his cock, and John’s hips jerk instinctively forward into the touch, as though his cock still has Sherlock’s fingerprints imprinted on his very skin, responding faster to this specific touch than to anyone else who’s ever touched him before. Sherlock is watching him, his lips parted, gaze transferring between John’s cock to his face and back again, his thumb pressing into the slit of John’s cock as it seeps out a drop of liquid, smearing it against the head, and John’s breath is shaking. 

“D’you want to take my pants off?” he asks, trying hard to keep his voice calm, which is a challenge. 

Sherlock looks back into his face for a long moment, then nods without speaking. They do it together, John lifting his hips so that Sherlock can tug the pyjama pants out from under him and then off his legs. Sherlock tosses them away. “Now what?” he asks, nerves and desire flickering alternatingly across his face. 

“Now come here,” John tells him, straining harder than ever to keep his voice sounding as normal as he can make it when his cock is flushed and harder than a pike and still leaking, hungry for Sherlock’s hand or body or – anything, really. Sherlock comes willingly and John pulls him down onto himself again, his cock seeking Sherlock’s through the thin layer of cotton separating them. He drags Sherlock’s mouth back to his, then puts both hands directly down Sherlock’s pants and grasps his luscious arse with all ten fingers.

Sherlock gasps into his mouth and kisses frantically, dragging in lungfuls of air in between. He makes a desperate-sounding noise, nodding in John’s face, and they jointly push the pants down and out of the way, first in the back, then in the front. Sherlock moves off him for a moment to kick the garment out of the way, then gets hastily back onto John, their cocks touching for the first time. Sherlock makes a muffled groan into John’s mouth. “Oh – John – ” His hand is reaching back to scrabble at the blankets they’re lying on, though. “Can we just – ”

John gets it. “Yeah – of course,” he says, and there’s a brief wrestling match as he gets the blankets over them, covering Sherlock’s nudity. “And this,” he says, determined to remember to actually teach something useful here, “is about the right time for some lube.” 

Sherlock is lying on top of him, his face slightly uncomprehending. “Why?” 

“I’ve never done this before, but I suspect we’ll want it,” John says, as evenly as he can manage. His heart is thumping, arousal flaring from every nerve ending, every movement or twitch of Sherlock’s cock going making it all the more acute by the moment. “We don’t want friction, after all.” 

“Oh.” Sherlock looks embarrassed for having asked. “No – of course not. Erm – do you – have some?” 

“Yeah, right here,” John assures him, reaching for it blindly from the drawer of his nightstand. He offers Sherlock the tube. “Why don’t you try it? Just rub some onto both of us,” he adds, as Sherlock’s mouth begins to form the question. 

Sherlock swallows. “Okay.” He shifts over slightly to free his arms from supporting his weight, and extracts some. “So I just – ”

“Just like when you touched me before,” John confirms. “Just like – _ah_! Yeah, like – like that!” 

Sherlock started by rubbing it directly onto John and now he’s touching both of them jointly, his hand big enough to wrap around them both, breathing hard all the while. He abandons the tube and moves back onto John. “And now I just… like before?” he asks, and John nods, too quickly. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Oh – fuck yes, just like that – that’s good, Sherlock – really good!” 

Sherlock is thrusting against him, panting too hard to respond, at least verbally, and John decides that he’s said enough. Instinct should be enough to guide Sherlock from here. He’s never felt another cock touch his before, not that he hasn’t thought about it, but the experience itself is still new. He grips Sherlock’s arse, moving against him in a rhythm that feels unusually natural, as though they’ve done this dozens of times before. It’s so good – he’s leaking furiously and moaning in what he hopes Sherlock will take as encouragement to keep doing exactly what he’s doing, because it feels so good John could just about cry. He goes a little faster, which is a bit difficult from beneath Sherlock, but Sherlock catches on immediately, maybe driven by his own, mounting desperation, rocking hard against John, double-time now, panting hotly against John’s mouth. Suddenly his breath catches. “John – I’m – ” It’s all he has time to get out before a shudder runs the length of his back and then there’s liquid heat gushing onto John’s skin, Sherlock thrusting hard against him as his orgasm overtakes him, his voice moaning, breath bursting out of his throat in gasps. 

It's so hot that it pushes John all the way to the edge. He clings to Sherlock’s back and thrusts against his spurting cock three, four, five more times and that’s it – he’s there, the orgasm roaring through his frame and thundering in his ears as he comes all over Sherlock’s stomach and chest, not even touched directly. 

He’s dazed and panting hard when he comes to himself, Sherlock lying heavily on top of him, spent and limp. There’s a strangely peaceful silence that’s gathered around them both, not pressuring John to talk or say anything to ‘normalise’ this, as if that would even be possible, but to break the aftermath and reframe it briskly as a coaching. Besides, he feels far too sated to be bothered. This is fine. They can just lie here for a little. It’s fine. 

***


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

 

John wakes in confusion. He’s in his own bed, but he’s not alone – someone is behind him, spooning him, an arm around his torso. An extremely masculine arm – it’s Sherlock, John realises in shock, his brain coming awake in a rush. He remembers last night’s coaching session. They fell asleep after, clearly. It’s morning and they’ve just spent the night together. And Sherlock is dating someone else. A knot comes into John’s gut. Does this compromise everything? Then again, Corey Graham was, at the very least, holding hands with Gaia Dawson-Smythe, so who’s to say that he and Sherlock are exclusive? Nevertheless, this definitely doesn’t work for John. Coaching his best friend to enable this relationship or whatever it is with Corey Graham is one thing, but he cannot afford to go blurring the lines for himself, whatever Sherlock’s arrangement with Corey is. He’s got to keep that line clear if he’s going to survive this thing. 

Sherlock is hard. This fact is very much evident, as his erection is pressing directly into the cleft of John’s arse, and his own body is extremely aware of it. Hyper-aware, even – his cock is stiffer than anything. He needs to say something, and more than that, he needs to get out of this bed and away from Sherlock before something unplanned happens. He’s not even sure whether Sherlock is awake. He inhales to say something, but then Sherlock’s breathing shifts, his mouth making sleepy noises. “John?” His voice is a murmur, his eyes still closed from the sounds of it. 

John hesitates. “Er, yeah, good morning,” he says stiffly. “Um. You fell asleep here.” 

“Mmm.” Sherlock sounds only half-awake. “Okay.” 

“Actually, not okay,” John corrects him, a bit sharp. “You’re dating someone. Remember?” 

There’s a pause, during which John can actively hear Sherlock’s brain coming back online. “Oh. Yes.” Then there’s a deep inhalation, possibly of him realising their relative positions, but instead of moving, Sherlock hesitates. “John…” 

John steels himself and tells himself to be firm. “What?” 

There’s a rather eloquent pause this time, Sherlock choosing his wording with greater care. “Could we… possibly make this a coaching?” he asks. “I mean… I’m already here, and we’re…”

He trails off, perhaps not wanting to assume aloud that John is as aroused as he obviously is (though he is), or maybe just having second thoughts about his request. John closes his eyes for a moment, knowing that he should refuse this. He _should_. On the other hand, Sherlock is far more relaxed than he normally is, sleep having seemingly eased some of his inhibitions about this sort of thing, and he’s also overtly asking for it. Would turning him down be humiliating for him? Or crush his burgeoning confidence in himself in doing any of this stuff? John feels his resolve wavering precariously. “What… er, what do you want to do? Just – instinctively,” he adds, improvising. “What are you asking for?”

He can hear Sherlock swallow. “I – I sort of just want – this,” Sherlock says, moving his hips a little to allow his cock to press all the more firmly into the split of John’s arse. 

For a second John doesn’t know whether he means that he wants to fuck John, or just rub against him. “As in – ”

“Not – that,” Sherlock says hastily. “Just – like this. On the surface. Could we… try that?” 

John drags in a lungful of air, not trusting himself to speak. Morally speaking, he should say no. He knows this. But as Sherlock’s friend, as his coach in all things sexual, and also on a strictly physical note, he doesn’t want to. His resolve gives way and he can’t even tell whether he’s being kind or weak or just self-indulgent. “Yeah.” His voice is half-whisper. “Okay.” He finds the lube, shoved somewhere high beside the pillow, and passes it back to Sherlock. “You’ll want some of this, then.” 

“Okay.” There’s a bit of guilty relief in Sherlock’s tone, but he doesn’t say anything else, busying himself with rubbing lube onto his skin. He passes the tube back, then puts his hand back on John’s chest, slick with the stuff. “So I just – ”

His hips are pressing forward, and John nods. “Yeah. Just – follow your instincts.” 

“You’ll tell me if it’s not – ”

“I’ll tell you,” John promises. “Just – go ahead, then.” He can feel Sherlock hesitating, now that he’s been given permission, so he adds, “Come on. You’re already so good and hard. Don’t – think so much. Just do it.” 

He can feel Sherlock nodding. “Okay,” he says again, his voice breathier this time, and he starts to move, rubbing his cock into the crease of John’s arse. They’re under the blankets, nudity mostly hidden, which must be making it easier for Sherlock. Sherlock swallows again, then exhales and starts to go faster. He reaches down for John’s cock and makes a small sound of satisfaction at finding it rock hard and practically leaping into Sherlock’s touch as his fingers curl around it and begin to stroke, slippery with lube. 

John moans; he can’t stifle it. “Yeah – that’s good,” he confirms, pushing into Sherlock’s hand. It takes a second or two, but then they figure out a rhythm, Sherlock thrusting against him in counterpoint to John thrusting into his fist. It’s just a reach-around but it’s been a long time, John thinks defensively, closing his eyes as Sherlock jerks his fist over him, humping him faster now, pressed deeply into the cleft of John’s arse. He shouldn’t be feeling this turned on by the feel of Sherlock’s cock right there against him, but the very hint of being penetrated is breathtakingly arousing, somehow, along with the feeling of Sherlock in general, his body pressed up against John’s back, the heat of him surrounding John in a way that no woman’s body ever has. Plus, Sherlock’s long, lithely muscular arm and enormous hand jerking him off is another turn-on, the tendons of his forearm tensing visibly through his pale skin – John hears himself moan, his hand closing instinctively around Sherlock’s. “God, yes, please – ” He’s right there, his cock leaking fiercely, and he’s about to – he thrusts forward into Sherlock’s fist and hears Sherlock’s breath suck in hard, his leg curling around John’s thigh, his cock rubbing directly against John’s balls, and that does it: John closes his eyes and comes _hard_ , Sherlock’s hand working him the entire while, urging more and more of it out, and then his fist tenses and his own cock bursts out hot spatter after hot spatter onto John’s balls and thighs and probably Sherlock’s own hand and wrist, his breath hot in John’s hair. 

They lie there panting for a bit, then Sherlock gives him a last stroke or two, as though just confirming that John’s properly spent, then he pulls away, turning onto his back. “Thank you for that,” he says, still breathing hard and sounding somewhat dazed. “I know that was – but it just seemed – ” He stops, obviously confused about what he wants to say. “I – that helped. It was really good.” 

John doesn’t know what to say to this, either. “It was, yeah,” he says, not quite reluctant to admit it, but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say or feel about this, either. It feels a bit awkward now. 

Sherlock must sense it. “I’ll, um. I should – let you get up. And perhaps I’ll get started on breakfast, if you’d like to shower first?” 

John can hear the trace of guilt in Sherlock’s voice, but also recognises the olive branch and accepts it. “Yeah, sure. Okay.” 

Sherlock nods, the movement translating through the pillows, then gets himself out of John’s bed. “See you downstairs, then,” he says quickly. He stoops to collect his pyjama pants from where they were tossed last night, pulling them back on, and makes quickly for the stairs, not looking back. 

John listens to him go, then sags back against his bed. Shit, he thinks. This just ramped up the level of complication to a new factor entirely. They just spent the night together. Having a cool, level-headed, kindly-meant, pedagogically-approached coaching on the sofa downstairs is one thing, but they were mostly clothed, technique was discussed throughout, and things stayed normal-feeling after. Now they’ve been actually naked together, spent the night together in John’s bed, and had morning sex after. And now they’re about to have breakfast together. Again, as they do most days. It’s just that today it’s going to feel different. And possibly every other day. And tonight, Sherlock is going to go and spend the night in someone else’s bed. How the fuck is John supposed to _not_ feel jealous at this point? He feels like he’s been a pretty near a damned superhero himself up until now, graciously enabling the man he’s been trying not to be in love with for the past seven years to date a celebrity superstar – a man vastly more attractive, wealthy, and probably nicer than John will ever be, at that. Last night was one thing, but this morning has possibly crossed a line. Or maybe that line got crossed back when he first kissed Sherlock. He doesn’t even know. 

John gets out of bed, feeling nearly as conflicted as he felt the day he left Baker Street for Sherlock’s parents’ place with the general agenda of going back to Mary. Not that he’d wanted to, but he’d thought it was the right thing to do. There was a child on the way, his child. He had to. But he hadn’t wanted to. What he wants, and this is becoming clearer than ever, is to go downstairs, pull Sherlock into his arms, and tell him in no uncertain terms that he wants Sherlock to forget the name of Corey Graham forever, to kiss him right then and there, and to come back upstairs again tonight. That’s not going to happen, though. Sherlock has a dinner party to go to, and a date to stay overnight at Corey’s fancy Covent Garden condo after. John scowls at his dressing gown and pulls it on.

How is he even supposed to act now, he wonders, descending the stairs to the second storey. He stops in the kitchen doorway. Sherlock has put on a dressing gown, his old blue one with the bullet hole in the sleeve, and is cooking bacon, his long back framed beautifully in the silk folds of the garment. John’s throat grows tight. He was just caressing that very back last night. He opens his mouth, inhaling, searching for something to say, and Sherlock hears him and turns around. 

“I was thinking, I could use your help on what to wear tonight,” he says, very quickly, apprehension all over his face. 

He waits, and John understands exactly what he’s trying to do: he gets that staying over last night put things in a strange new place for them, and he’s doing his utmost to restore some semblance of official coaching to this dynamic they have now. He’s going on a date tonight, and it’s not with John. John swallows, then nods. His bits are covered in more of Sherlock’s come than his own, but this is how things are. And Sherlock is saving this, making things feel normal again. Or as normal as they possibly can right now. “Yeah,” John says, his voice only half coming out. “Just – I’ll just have that shower, and after breakfast, we can figure it out.” 

Sherlock nods and gives him a small, relieved smile. “Okay. Thank you,” he says. “The coffee’s brewing. Take your time, though. I’m making a frittata. It will take a bit.” 

“Okay,” John says, and somehow he feels relieved, too. Things are going to be okay. They’ll get through this weird phase somehow. 

*** 

John spends the earlier part of the day half hoping that a case will come up and prevent Sherlock from going out, but nothing comes of it: both of their blogs remain resolutely silent. Besides, he’s going to see his family for tea, anyway. Sometime after lunch, which they ate closer to two than to noon, owing to their late breakfast, John goes into the kitchen where Sherlock is typing on his laptop. 

“What time is this dinner party starting?” he asks. 

Sherlock looks up. “I’m not precisely sure. I’m supposed to meet Corey at the condo for a drink first.” 

“A ‘drink’, meaning a quick hand job,” John says dryly. “Right, okay: so what time is that happening?” 

Sherlock looks a bit apologetic. “He said to come around five. I’m s – is that – too early? Will I miss – ”

John purses his lips. “Yeah,” he admits, not wanting Sherlock to feel badly. “Mum said that Harry’ll be home around four, which I took to mean that’s about when she wanted me to come. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” 

Sherlock’s lips part and he blinks rapidly, looking a bit upset. “I – John – ” He stops, trying to figure out what to say. “I can text him and tell him I can’t come until later. Or that I can meet him at the dinner place, if he tells me where it is. I should be there.” 

John _is_ disappointed, but he knows better than to let it show. “It’s fine,” he says, more convincingly this time. “You can come next time. Don’t change your date around for this. We can go together next week, if you want.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, but John overrides him gently. “It would be awkward as arse to show up at a stranger’s house for a dinner party without Corey,” he points out. “That’s why it makes sense for you to go together. It’s okay,” he repeats. “It’s just tea with my mum and sister and Rosie. That can hardly be expected to compete against the likes of dinner with Corey Graham and his famous friends.” 

Sherlock looks unhappy. “It’s not about – competition,” he says. “You know I always like to see Rosie. And your mother and sister.” 

This last is pure politeness on his part; he and Harry like one another about as much as John and Mycroft do. John gives him a look that says he’s seen right through this, but decides to be tactful and not call Sherlock out on it. “They won’t change much before next week, I promise,” he says. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock still looks troubled, so he decides to lighten the subject a little. “So, the pre-dinner hand job: feeling confident about that?” 

Sherlock looks at him and begins to smile, not answering. 

John is confused. “What?” he says, staring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock shakes his head a little. “Nothing. You’re a good friend, you know. Better than I deserve.” 

“I’m your _best_ friend,” John corrects him lightly. “And don’t you forget it.” 

“I won’t,” Sherlock says quietly, and it’s rather intense. Then he ducks his head and clears his throat. “Yes, I think I’m all right with that part. Besides, as you said, if that’s – on the menu, then I’m sure it would be necessarily quick.” He studies his fingers for a moment, then looks up again. “At the party, do you think I’d be expected to – I don’t know, hold hands with him or something? Make it look as though we’re – like that?” 

“Dating?” John supplies, raising his eyebrows. So far neither of them has called it that, but Sherlock is about to spend the night with this guy. It’s four dates in now. Surely that’s enough to call it dating, if not a defined relationship as such. Sherlock flushes a little, but doesn’t deny it. John shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t know what he’ll expect. Follow his lead, with the standard disclaimer about your own comfort, of course. If it’s too much for you, you’ll have to cross that bridge when you come to it. I know it’s different when it’s in front of other people… play it by ear, I guess.” 

Sherlock nods quickly. “Okay,” he says, his voice uncertain and his eyes very blue. “Thank you.” 

John’s heart attempts to turn over in his chest and for a second he can’t speak, so he just nods. 

*** 

Tea at Mum’s is fine. Rosie has just discovered the word ‘no’ and likes to use it for every question she’s asked, which gets tiresome pretty quickly, though Mum and Harry seem to find it funny enough. 

“Would you like a biscuit?” John offers his daughter, attempting to woo her attention with a chocolate biscuit, which would normally work. 

“No!” Rosie snatches the biscuit anyway and wanders away with it before John can scoop her up for a brief cuddle. 

He sighs. Harry smirks at him. “Two-year-olds,” she says, shrugging. “So how’s work? Do you guys have a case on right now?”

John shakes his head. “It’s been quiet. Though normally when I say that, a big one blows up in our faces.” 

Mum refills his tea mug. “Where’s Sherlock, then? Thought he’d be here with you?” 

Harry snorts. “Mum wore her new blouse just in case,” she tells John dryly, hinting at their running joke that Mum fancies Sherlock a bit. 

“I didn’t!” Mum protests. “I only wore it because it’s new, and when you’ve got a new shirt, you like to wear it! That’s all!” 

John joins in with Harry’s laughter. “Well, it’s a nice blouse,” he tells his mother. “That colour is good on you.” 

Mum looks pleased and touches the collar. “The lady in the shop said that lavender suits me.” 

“I think that’s lilac, actually,” John muses. “Lavender’s got a little more blue in the tone.” 

His mother and sister stare at him, and suddenly John hears what he just said. “Wow,” Harry says. “Living with Sherlock really has rubbed off on you.” 

He can hear the faint sneer beneath her specific choice of words and does his best not to think of last night, or this morning, but feels a touch of anger rise to his cheeks. “Watch it,” he tells her, a bit sharp. “It’s because he planned the colours when I married Mary. The bridesmaids wore lilac. Not that you would know.” 

This is still a source of contention between them and Harry subsides immediately. It’s also a generally awkward area, given that he and Mum weren’t even on speaking terms when the wedding took place, and she was thereby not even invited, unlike Harry. Harry glances at Mum. “So where is he, then?” she asks, letting him off the hook. 

John clears his throat. “He’s… on a date, actually. I can’t really say much about it, because the person he’s with is pretty famous, and I’m probably not allowed to, for security or whatever. But… yeah. He said to say hello and that he’s sorry to have missed you. He also said to bring home one of your scones, if they were on offer,” he adds to his mother, delivering all of this very quickly, and in the most normal tone he can muster. 

Mum’s mouth falls open and Harry looks a bit stunned, too. Mum recovers first. “A _date_?!” she repeats, sounding aghast. 

John swallows and nods. “Yup,” he says. “That’s what I said.” 

“John!” Harry looks truly speechless, which is very much unlike her. She blinks at him, her expression peculiar. Is she – pitying him? She shakes her head. “I don’t know what to say…” 

John frowns at her. “Why should you need to say something, particularly?” Rosie appears at his knee just then, and glad of the welcome distraction, he looks down at his child. “Do you want to come up?” he asks. 

“No!” But Rosie puts her arms up to be lifted, so John collects her and sets her on his knee, bouncing her the way she usually likes. 

He can sense his mother and sister exchanging looks. “It’s just… I suppose I must have been mistaken,” Mum says, fingering her necklace. She’s broken out the fake pearls, no doubt also for Sherlock’s benefit. It has to be said that Sherlock usually _does_ comment gallantly on her appearance, to be fair. “I thought you two were – you know… together,” Mum says. 

“So did I,” Harry adds, glancing at Mum. “I thought it was why you moved back in with him. Thought you’d finally seen the light there.” 

John swallows. He doesn’t know what to say to this. “Look… we’ve – we’ve got a – slightly complicated friendship, okay? He’s my best friend. We’re – very close. But it’s never been – that.” 

“Never?” Harry repeats, a bit incredulous. 

John shakes his head. “Nope.” The word is hard to say. He smooths Rosie’s fine, downy hair with one hand and discovers a barrette slightly tangled at the back of her head. “Did you put this on yourself?” he asks her. She nods. “Clever girl,” he tells her, smiling. 

“ _I_ put it in,” Mum says, smiling at the back of Rosie’s head. 

“But did you never want it to be that?” Harry asks, refusing to let the subject be changed. Mum looks at him expectantly, wanting to hear the answer, too. 

John can’t answer. “I… don’t know,” he says, somewhat truthfully, but mostly not. “It’s always been so complicated, with us… you know that he faked his death and disappeared for two years in there, right? You haven’t forgotten that bit?” 

“No, but you said he was off saving your life,” Harry says, with a hard stare. “You said he couldn’t tell you. He told us that, too.” 

“No, that’s true,” John is forced to say. “But I’m just saying – that’s why the whole Mary business happened, and then when he got back, everything was – and it stayed complicated for a long time. We’ve only just started getting our friendship back to normal since I moved back in. Or as normal as it ever was.” He thinks unwittingly of the past twenty-four hours and the fact that Sherlock is probably getting jerked off by the star of a major Hollywood superhero franchise even as they speak and feels a bit sick. “Look,” he says, looking at them both. “It’s all _fine_. He can date someone if he feels like it. It doesn’t change anything between us. We’re best friends, and he’s still living at Baker Street. That’s not going to change.” 

Neither of them looks convinced. Even Rosie is looking at him dubiously. “What if it gets serious?” Harry asks quietly. “He could move out.” 

“I don’t think he’ll do that,” John says firmly. “Baker Street is his home. All he wanted, that whole time he was away, was to come home. Besides, this guy he’s dating is a major superstar. I don’t think it can possibly last all that long.” 

Mum looks at Harry. “All right, then, John. If you say so.” She turns her attention to her granddaughter. “Now, who’s ready for a sandwich and some soup?” she asks, putting on her talking-to-children voice. 

“No!” Rosie exclaims, and this time they all laugh. 

Mum gets up and busies herself with the rest of their tea, and Harry reaches over and pats John on the wrist before going to join her, in an odd visitation of sisterly sympathy. John looks at the two of them for a second, somehow wanting to protest this sympathy, then gives up the notion. “Come on,” he says to his daughter. “Let’s go and have a look at your stickers.” 

“No!” Rosie comes anyway, and they spend ten minutes putting peel-away stickers on a page in a book until it’s time to eat, which is about as long as his toddler daughter’s attention span will last for, anyway, but it’s nice. It’s soothing, somehow, and loath as he is to admit it, soothing is rather nice just about now. 

*** 

Nevertheless, that night when he’s back at the flat, alone in the dark of his bedroom, John can’t help but feel miserably jealous. The flat seems particularly dark and empty without Sherlock in it, and the contrast between this and last night, when he was right here in John’s bed with him, is almost unbearable. 

A light rain has started and is spattering against the window. John turns on his side, tugs the blankets up to his ears, and tries his best not to think of Sherlock, naked with Corey and trying so hard to play it nonchalantly, as though he’s done what he’s doing hundreds of times before and to keep his nervousness and vulnerability hidden. John’s entire being seems to ache, thinking of it. 

It takes him hours to fall asleep. 

*** 

John has only just woken when he hears something downstairs. Rubbing his eyes, he reaches for his phone to check the time. It’s not even ten yet – that can’t be Sherlock, can it? It’s probably Mrs Hudson, he reasons, but then he hears steps coming up to his bedroom, too heavy to be hers. It _is_ Sherlock. His heart starts to pound, which is ridiculous. 

Sherlock knocks at his door. “John?” he asks, his voice soft, not wanting to wake him. “You awake?” 

“Yeah, come in,” John says, trying to tell his stupid heart to calm down. 

Sherlock opens the door and slips into the room, shutting the door behind him, as though it’s meant to be a secret that he’s even there. “Hi,” he says. “I didn’t want to wake you if you were still sleeping.”

“I’d only just woken up, but I was awake,” John assures him. He shifts himself into a sitting position and runs a hand through his hair, waking up the rest of the way. Pearly grey light is coming in through the window, drops sliding down the panes. The rain hasn’t stopped yet, then. The bedroom is chilly and Sherlock is just standing there, looking a bit unsure of himself. John gestures him over. “Have a seat, if you like.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock comes and sits down, almost gingerly. “How are you?” he asks, his tone oddly polite. “How was tea yesterday?” 

“It was fine,” John says. “Nothing exciting. Mum made chicken noodle soup and toasted cheese sandwiches.” 

“Her own soup?” Sherlock asks. 

John nods. “Yeah. It was good.” 

“How’s Rosie?” Sherlock wants to know. 

“Big into the word ‘no’,” John tells him, a bit ruefully. “I couldn’t get her attention for long. She did let me give her some soup, though.” 

Sherlock is listening intently, actually caring. “Well, that’s something,” he offers. 

“Mum sent home a bag of scones for ‘us’, but you know they’re really for you,” John adds dryly. 

Sherlock laughs aloud at this, not looking at him. “What flavour?” he asks, and there’s real affection in his tone. 

“Half a dozen raisin and half a dozen lemon cranberry.” John watches him, trying to push down the stupid amounts of fondness welling up in him at Sherlock’s smile. 

“My favourite,” he says, meaning the lemon cranberry. “She remembered.” 

“She wore her new blouse, just to impress you,” John tells him. “ _And_ her pearls. Well – fake pearls.” 

“Naturally.” Sherlock nods. “I would never let on, of course.” His lips compress in regret. “I’m sorry I missed them. Next time, definitely.” 

“Of course,” John echoes automatically. “How was your date? How come you’re home so early?” 

Sherlock shrugs, just his right shoulder lifting slightly. “It was good,” he says. “Corey’s friends are actually very nice. We saw a film that one of them was in, once. You and I, I mean. I couldn’t remember the title, then or now. But they were all quite nice.” 

John waits, but when Sherlock doesn’t elaborate, he prods him. “Go on,” he says. “Tell me more. What did you have for dinner? What about the drink beforehand? What about – the rest of it? Come on: spill.” 

Sherlock smiles down at his hands, then turns so that he’s lying down on his side, looking up at John from the foot of the bed. “The people hosting made pork tenderloin with roast potatoes and peas.” He makes a face at this last, and John snickers. Typically, the only time Sherlock will voluntarily eat peas is in one very specific thing that John makes and which he professes to love, the peas notwithstanding. “I ate them to be polite. You would have been proud of me. There was also some kind of bland salad to start with, and chocolate mousse after. It was fine. Nothing exciting. That pork tenderloin recipe we tried last month in the slow cooker was better, with the garlic cream gravy. But it was nice.” He glances at John. “The rest was good, too. You were right about the ‘drink’. That _was_ code. And I was right that it would be necessarily quick, since we were expected at the dinner party. It actually took place standing up, which was… odd. Not – unenjoyable, just – strange.” 

“But it was okay?” John asks, and Sherlock nods. “And what about in terms of how you interacted at the dinner party? How, er, affectionate was he?” 

“He kept it light,” Sherlock says, sounding relieved on this score. “For awhile we were sitting on a sofa and he put his arm around my shoulders, but it was all right. The occasional touch here or there. Not overly demonstrative. Just enough to convey his interest consistently, I suppose.” 

John nods. “Okay. That’s good, then. How late did you stay at the dinner party?” 

Sherlock thinks. “I think we left around half-past ten? After we ate, we played a trivia game. I was particularly good at the things you would expect me to be good at. The rest of them were good at the film-related things specifically, but lacked your general life knowledge.” 

John marvels inwardly that Sherlock sat there playing this game with these strangers and overtly compared him to them. Interesting. “And after?” he can’t help asking. “How did the night part go?” 

Sherlock looks down at the blanket and plucks at it with his fingers. “It was – fine,” he says, his voice going a bit stiff. Self-conscious, John knows. “Your coaching was spot-on. It began on the sofa, then progressed into his bedroom, as I expected. He kept the lights off, which helped a good deal.” 

John swallows; somehow his mouth has gone dry. “And for the actual – act?” he asks. “Did that – go the way you’d thought, too?” 

Sherlock nods. “Yes. I… yes.” 

John waits. “What?” he asks. “What were you going to say?” 

Sherlock hesitates. “There was… a moment when I thought that possibly, he wanted to try… something else. I wasn’t sure. But I managed to steer it toward – that. What we did, the previous night.” 

“What did you think he wanted to do?” John asks curiously. 

Sherlock’s lips press together. “I’m not entirely certain,” he admits. “I thought that… perhaps he wanted to do something more involved. Something involving – penetration,” he clarifies delicately. “And we hadn’t talked about that at all, and I didn’t know which way he would – so I actively tried to steer it toward – the other thing.” 

“Good,” John says approvingly. “How did you bring that about?” 

“I just started touching him,” Sherlock says, blinking at him, the corner of his mouth twisting. “And then I pulled him toward me. He was the one on top, so I didn’t have to – do anything, per se. It – took some of the pressure off.” He pauses, then adds, “And it happened again in the morning. Not the same thing, though.” 

“Oh?” John feels his eyebrows rise. “Do tell.” 

“He – I woke up because he was touching me,” Sherlock says, fidgeting a little. “Not my – just my arm and back. I didn’t sleep very well. But the morning part was… good.” 

John circles his finger forward in the air. “Keep going.” He’ll ask about the sleeping part after. “What happened?” 

Sherlock swallows visibly. “He said good morning and such, kissed me a bit, then started touching me again.” He pauses. “And then he – er, he put his mouth on me.”

John suddenly can’t breathe. “Just a little, or – did he – did he get you – you know – all the way there?” he asks jerkily. 

Sherlock clears his throat, looking down at the bedding he’s still picking at. “The – latter,” he says, his pale face staining crimson. “It was – good. I felt – ridiculously self-conscious throughout, but – yes.” 

John feels momentarily so subsumed by jealousy that he can barely speak. “And did you – do that back, after?” he gets out. 

Sherlock shakes his head quickly. “No. He – took care of that, himself, while he was – so I was off the hook. It also made it easier to – not feel as put on the spot.” 

John nods, still having difficulty. “Okay. Good,” he says, his mouth even drier. His mind is blank, but then he remembers to circle back. “How come you didn’t sleep well?” 

Sherlock shrugs again, the colour still high in his face. “I don’t know. It was just… strange, being there. I would have preferred to have come home after. He fell asleep before I did, and I couldn’t seem to get comfortable, or feel comfortable sleeping in front of him… I didn’t know what to touch or not touch, and if he touched me in his sleep, I always felt it and woke up. It just wasn’t – relaxing.” 

John thinks of how relaxed Sherlock seemed the night before, so relaxed that they fell asleep without even thinking about it consciously, and how reluctant Sherlock seemed to be to move away from him or get out of bed, and also the fact of his arm draped heavily over John, rather than avoiding his touch, and allows himself to feel almost viciously smug. “I see,” he says, careful to keep it off his face. “So why are you home so early, then, if that bit was so good? Did he make you breakfast, at least?” 

Sherlock shakes his head again. “He wanted to. I just – wanted to come home, though. I mean, I usually eat with you.” 

“True, but you could have eaten there,” John points out. “I hope you didn’t think I was expecting you or something. You’re allowed to eat with him, if you want to.” 

“I wanted to eat with you,” Sherlock states plainly, his eyes rising to meet John’s, his voice very even. “Problem?” 

“No, of course not,” John tells him. Somehow, ridiculously, this makes him feel better. They _do_ normally eat together, and he’s rather touched that Sherlock actively wanted to come home to him for this. “How did you get home? Did he drive you?” 

“No. He offered, but I took a cab.” Sherlock shrugs and sits up. “I think he was somewhat disappointed, but it was already a lot of time to spend with one person.” 

John thinks of all the time they routinely spend together, particularly given that they live together, and feels better still. “Okay,” he says, not pointing this out. 

“I assume you haven’t eaten yet,” Sherlock says, looking at him. 

“You assume correctly. What would you like to do?” John asks. “Cook and eat in? Or go out? It’s Saturday…”

They often go out on Saturdays. “Let’s go out,” Sherlock decides. “Should I see if Mrs Hudson wants to come?” 

This is also a semi-regular tradition of theirs. John smiles. “Sure,” he says. “Why not? I’ll just hop into the shower, unless you need it?” 

“I wouldn’t mind one,” Sherlock says. “I didn’t want to shower at Corey’s, somehow. It would have felt odd. You can go first, though. I’ll go down and see if Mrs Hudson is about.” 

“Sure.” John gets out of bed, hoping that he hasn’t got morning wood, particularly given the nature of their conversation. “I left those scones on the table, meanwhile. Help yourself.” 

“I will,” Sherlock says, following him out the door and down the stairs. “I’ll make a pot of tea, too.” 

“Great,” John says, smiling at no one in particular. This is rather satisfying, honestly. The flat feels alive again now that Sherlock is home. And it’s Saturday and they’ll likely go somewhere divinely decadent for brunch, with or without Mrs H, and all is temporarily back to the way it should be again. 

*** 

They collect Mrs Hudson and go to one of her favourites, a little Austrian place just a few streets over. The décor is continental and Mrs Hudson has been frequenting it for years. She orders her standard, buttermilk pancakes with blueberry compote, and Sherlock and John both order their own standards, bacon gröstl with fried eggs, which is what all three of them always have. It’s comfortable and familiar and everything feels balanced again, at least on the surface. 

And then, just as Sherlock is paying for the three of them, as he always does, his phone rings. He puts a finger up to the waiter, takes his receipt, listens intently, then says, “We’ll be right there.” 

He turns to John, who already knows. “Case?”

Sherlock nods. “Looks like a particularly grisly murder.” He turns apologetically to Mrs Hudson. “Sorry, Mrs Hudson – looks like we’ll have to dash straight there. You’ll be all right on your own?” 

She hoots at this. “Of course, you silly thing! Thank you for brunch – you really shouldn’t have, but it was lovely of you. Now go and solve your murder!” 

John gives her a grateful look. “See you later,” he says, and then they’re out the door, Sherlock already flagging down a taxi. They fall into it. “Tell me,” John says, his voice a mixture of intensity and excitement. They haven’t had a particularly challenging case for a little while now and he’s been bored. 

Sherlock gives him an appreciative look, smiling his shared sentiment about the entire thing. “Look.” He turns his phone toward John, opened to a photo in a text from Lestrade. 

The corpse has been eviscerated. That much is instantly clear, and for a moment John is very glad to have as strong a stomach as he does, particularly as they’ve only just eaten. “Ah,” he says. “Yeah, that’s not pretty. Where?” 

“Lewisham. A skip in Fortune Street Park,” Sherlock says, then leans forward to talk to the driver. “Take us to the corner of Golden Lane and Fortune Street, please.” 

“I’ll spare you any puns about ‘fortune’, shall I?” John says lightly, giving the phone back. 

Sherlock smirks. “I had already assumed one on your part. Don’t worry.” 

John snickers, then gets properly serious. “Do we know who he was?” 

“No, not yet, but we will soon. We’re nearly there.” Sherlock looks out his window, drumming his fingers on his knee, clearly impatient to begin. 

John looks at him and silently feels a surge of everything he’s not allowed to feel for Sherlock. God, it’s good to have a case again – their own work, that’s theirs and theirs alone. He can’t imagine Sherlock ever bringing Corey Graham to a crime scene. It would be a risk to the case, with the amount of media attention that would follow Corey in the first place. Plus, Sherlock wouldn’t do that to him, would he? Somehow he doesn’t think so. 

The cab stops. Time to stop mooning about and get to work. He jumps out of the taxi after Sherlock and they hasten over to where Lestrade’s got the murder scene taped off. 

*** 

The case takes up three full days. They don’t sleep that night, and the next day it’s only a nap and then they get the call that their suspect is on the move and they’re back on the pavement. John had worried that Sherlock’s new dalliance with Corey Graham might somehow set them back in terms of their working together on stuff like this, but if anything, they’re a tighter and more coherent unit than ever. John starts sentences which Sherlock finishes; he has thoughts that Sherlock gleans without him even saying a word. At one point, something occurs to John and he turns to Sherlock with the idea dawning on his face and Sherlock takes one look at him and exclaims, “ _Yes_! The dry-cleaners!” Lestrade just goggles at them both, utterly lost, but Sherlock is off and running with John hard on his heels before the man can even say anything.

In a slow moment here or there, John catches Sherlock furtively checking his texts, but for the most part he doesn’t respond. On the third day of the case, they’re crouching in an alley, waiting for the killer to emerge from the pub where they know he’s day drinking, all being neatly recorded by two of Lestrade’s better officers at the next table. They’ve each got an audio feed in their ears, Sherlock training his Browning on the back exit of the pub when his phone buzzes through his coat pocket and into John’s thigh. “For God’s sake,” he says, in exasperation. 

“Corey?” John asks, with a knowing look. 

“Almost certainly, since you’re right here,” Sherlock responds. “I can’t even answer it right now; I’m not putting the gun down.” 

The phone buzzes again. “D’you want me to?” John asks innocently. “I could send a response for you, if you like. Just so it’s not a distraction.” 

Sherlock nods, not taking his eyes from the door. “All right, as long as it doesn’t distract _you_.” 

“It won’t,” John promises. “Our man is still drinking, anyway.” He slides his hand delicately into Sherlock’s pocket, not even clear whether he’s trying to make it seductive or not. No – of course he isn’t. The entire point of this thing is to enable Sherlock to pursue this relationship if he wants it! Even so, he definitely wants it to be known that he’s Corey’s equal in this one thing, if little else. He extracts the phone. There are four texts showing on the lock screen that he can read without even unlocking it. 

_Still on your case?_

_Any idea how much longer it should go? Not that there’s any rush, of course. :)_

_I was just wondering if you’re free for dinner._

_Sorry to keep bothering you, though… if you get a free second sometime, let me know. xo_

The _xo_ irritates John. He reads the four texts aloud, swiping to unlock the screen. There are a few short exchanges above, but nothing salacious, mostly just Corey inquiring and Sherlock responding briefly with things like, _Busy. Sorry. SH_ and the like. “What do you want me to say?” 

Sherlock thinks for a moment, then says, “Write: ‘Case is still going, sorry. Can’t talk right now.’”

John types this, then hesitates. “Do you want to add anything else?” he asks. “Not to tell you how to handle this, but… if you were to express some sort of regret at not being able to see him, he’d probably appreciate it.” 

Sherlock exhales a little, not enough for John to tell whether or not it’s a sigh. “Fine. What do you think I should say?” 

“Hmm.” John thinks. “What about, ‘Wish I could’? Or something like that?” 

Sherlock makes a sound of negation. “Just tell him that I’ll try to be in touch tomorrow. We’ll have wrapped this by then, probably. Don’t say that, though.” 

“Okay.” John adds _I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. SH_ He presses send. The message is read immediately, then the symbol of Corey typing back appears. The response comes immediately. “Oh. He just responded. It says, ‘Is John there with you?’” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Tell him ‘of course’.”

John types and sends this, feeling a bit smug. Corey writes back right away again. It just says _Ok. Good luck with the case._ He reads this aloud. “Want me to respond?” 

“No, I want you to focus,” Sherlock says, a bit shortly. “Blahnik could come out any second! My personal life should be the last thing on our minds!” 

John slips the phone back into Sherlock’s pocket, noticing the way Sherlock lumps their joint thoughts into one body. Then again, he also separated out his personal life from John’s, as though the two are entirely unrelated. “Right. Of course,” he says. He draws his Sig. “I hope he moves his arse sooner rather than later. My quads are killing me.” 

Sherlock snorts. “Mine, too,” he admits. Just then, there’s a slight commotion inside the pub and they both snap to attention. Twenty seconds later, the back door comes flying open and Blahnik bolts into the alley, stopping short only as he sees them. 

A tackle and brief struggle later, their killer is cuffed and sat in the back of Lestrade’s cruiser as the murder charges are read to him, John tousled but otherwise feeling quite pleased with himself. Sergei Blahnik is a nasty piece of work – as evidenced by his literally gutless victim – and it’s a genuine pleasure to see him taken down. He checks the time. It’s half-past four but they haven’t eaten since a large order of chips that they shared, wolfed down sometime around midnight last night. There just hasn’t been time otherwise. It occurs to him that Sherlock would still have time to go for dinner with Corey if he mentioned it now. Maybe he should. Then again, Sherlock is perfectly capable of putting this fact together for himself. “Hungry?” he asks, watching Lestrade’s team empty the pub. The evidence that will put the final seal on Blahnik’s case will most certainly be captured on the pub’s security system. They’re not needed at this point. 

“Starving,” Sherlock replies. He looks around. “What’s around here?” 

They’re only a few streets away from the park where the victim was found. John frowns, thinking. “Isn’t there a rather good little pho place around here?” 

Sherlock’s face lights up. “Oh! Yes, over on Clerkenwell! Brilliant idea! I’m famished, actually. When did we last eat?” 

“Those chips, last night,” John says. “I’m absolutely ravenous, myself, if you want to know. And I love Vietnamese.” 

Sherlock chuckles. “You love everything once we’re post-case,” he points out. He glances at Lestrade’s team. “They’re fine, I’d say. Let’s go.” 

John falls into step beside him, the happy anticipation of a delicious meal brightening his sleep-deprived body to no end. “True, but so do you, once the ‘transport’ is allowed to matter again,” he teases. 

“Fair,” Sherlock admits. “It just gets put on hold during cases. It doesn’t stop existing, though.” 

“No, of course not,” John allows. He’s curious. “Now that you’ve become more sexually active, do you think that applies there, too?”

He delivers this with a sidelong glance at Sherlock, who looks thoughtful, rather than offended, which is good. “Possibly,” he says, considering the notion. “But I’m tired. It hasn’t hit yet, but when it does, I’ll crash and want to sleep for twelve hours. That part can wait.” 

John thinks of how this translates to meaning that Corey can wait, too, but doesn’t say it. “All right,” he says, not pursuing it. He changes the subject. “I think I’ll have their steak, brisket, and meatball pho. With some pork lettuce wraps.” 

Sherlock snickers. “Feeling low on protein?” 

“I must be,” John says ruefully. “Those chips were pure carb.” 

“True. Let’s share a green papaya salad, too. And some spring rolls,” Sherlock adds. “I’m going to have the same pho, I think.”

“We’re going to be incredibly full if we get all that,” John points out, noticing to himself that he does it, too, constantly calls them a _we_ , Corey Graham notwithstanding. 

“I don’t care. I’m starving.” Sherlock looks up. “Here it is. Come on, John – let’s get that table in the corner.” 

John agrees and lets Sherlock lead the way. His eyes feel gritty with fatigue, but this is their standard post-case routine: to gorge themselves on delicious food, then stumble home and sleep for a day and half. It all balances out in the end. Or at least, it has so far. They’ll just have to see how the added weight of a third person in their dynamic off-balances them. Time will tell, he supposes. For now, though, they’ve got dinner. 

*** 

They’re relaxing after a late-ish lunch the next day when Sherlock picks up his phone and sends a text. The response comes a few minutes later, and Sherlock types back. After several more exchanges, he puts the phone down, smiling to himself. 

John can’t help himself. “Corey?” he asks, shaking out the pages of the _Times_ as he turns them. Mrs Hudson collected all of the papers from the stoop long before they were awake, so he hasn’t had a chance to peek at the tabloids and see if there’s anything in there about Corey and Gaia Dawson-Smythe. 

Sherlock nods. “We’re going for dinner. And I’ll likely stay over again.” 

John was bracing himself for this. “Gotcha,” he says, keeping it neutral. “Where are you going for dinner?” 

Sherlock picks up his phone and scrolls back through the texts a little way. “It’s called Wilton’s. Sounds like another of those pretentiously overpriced places that attempts to do ‘modern takes on classic British cuisine’.” 

“It’ll probably be good, though,” John says. 

Sherlock types rapidly into his phone. “Hmm. Yes, probably. And I was quite right about the prices, by the way. Well, it’s not as though Corey can’t afford it. Bit steep for you and me, though.” 

John thinks of the pho place they stuffed themselves at last night and can’t quite picture the likes of Corey Graham in there. It’s not a dive by any stretch – it’s a perfectly nice little restaurant. Still, though. “Bit rich for my palate, anyway,” he says easily. He shifts, setting the paper down on the side table. “And after? Feeling good about that?” 

Sherlock glances across at him. “I think so, yes,” he says, his voice a bit guarded. “Why?”

John shrugs. “Just checking in. As your coach and all that.” 

Sherlock makes a gesture of concession. “Yes… it should be all right. I think.” 

“Including sleeping over again?” John asks. 

Sherlock purses his lips, thinking. “Honestly, I’d rather just come home,” he admits. “However, if, er, if what happened in the morning last time happens again… staying over could prove worthwhile.” 

He swallows visibly, his face pinking up, and John grins. “That,” he says fairly, “is completely valid. That’s, er, among my favouriter things to do, myself. Or – have done, I suppose I should say.” 

This gets him another slant of Sherlock’s eyes. “Oh?” he inquires delicately. “What about – the reverse? Actually doing that?” 

John clears his throat, suddenly feeling very much put on the spot. “Well… if you really want to know, I, er… I’ve never actually done that.” He thinks of the stag night, then tries very hard not to think about it, about the way he came within an inch of his life of face planting – deliberately – into Sherlock’s crotch. 

Sherlock studies him for a long moment, then nods. “I see,” he says, which doesn’t say much. 

John turns the tables. “Is that something you’d like to try?” he asks, rather directly. 

The colour swells again, only just noticeably. “Possibly,” Sherlock says diffidently. “Why? Were you going to suggest that I… practise first?” 

John can’t even tell whether this is meant to sound barbed or just playful, but Sherlock is definitely asking if John brought it up because he wants Sherlock to blow him. “No!” he says, too forcefully. He clears his throat yet again. “That’s not at all what I – look, every single coaching we’ve had has come at _your_ request, I’ll just remind you.” 

Sherlock blinks at him, almost innocent. “I know,” he says. He goes back to his phone. “Oysters,” he says dubiously. “Never tried those.” 

“I did, once,” John offers, willing the heat in his own face to subside. “Can’t say I liked them much, but maybe my palate just wasn’t very sophisticated at the time.” 

Sherlock frowns. “I’d say your palate is plenty sophisticated.” 

“Diverse, maybe, but not – pretentious, then,” John counters, and Sherlock accepts this. 

Later on they choose Sherlock’s date ensemble, and Sherlock gets ready to go. He crouches to tie his shoelaces as John hovers near the door, then straightens up. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he says. 

“There’s no rush,” John assures him. “You don’t want to cut your morning after short.” He delivers this with a smirk. 

Sherlock smiles at him, so affectionately that John almost thinks that Sherlock looks like he wants to reach out to hug him, and like he wants to say something, too, but he changes his mind. “Bye,” he says instead, that crooked, v-shaped smile of his appearing, and then he’s gone, his footsteps echoing on the seventeen stairs down to the hall below. 

John listens for the sound of the door and feels eviscerated by it when it comes. 

***


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

He spends the morning cleaning, helping Mrs Hudson reorganise her pantry, then eats lunch with her and runs a few errands. When he gets back, Sherlock is home, and he feels a pang of genuine disappointment that he missed his return. 

Sherlock is in the kitchen, making a pot of tea when John gets in, his hands full of the shopping. “John?” he says, as John reaches the top of the stairs. 

“Yeah, it’s me!” John comes in, his face smiling all over itself in spite of himself. “You’re home!”

Sherlock smiles, but his face is quizzical. “Where else would I be?” 

John shrugs. “I don’t know… you could have gone out with Corey or something.” 

“I’d have texted you.” Sherlock nods toward the note John scrawled for him. “I saw your note. Thank you. You got the shopping.” 

“Yeah.” John holds out the bags in his left hand for Sherlock to take, which he does. “I’d have waited for you, but I didn’t know when you were coming back and I didn’t want to bug you or interrupt, so I just went on my own.” 

“It’s fine, but I would have come and helped,” Sherlock says, setting his bags down on the table and beginning to unpack them. “Oh! You got havarti. Good!” 

John smiles to himself. “Yeah, it was on sale, and I know how much you like it. How was last night? How was dinner?” 

Sherlock makes a face. “I can’t say I particularly like oysters, either, now that I’ve tried them.” 

John grins. “No?” 

“No. Too slimy. Though the hot sauce helped a bit.” Sherlock carries an armful of dairy products to the fridge. “The rest of dinner was good. We had caviar after the oysters, then I had venison and he had some sort of mixed grill thing. It came with black pudding. I shouldn’t have told him what was in it.” He smirks. 

John looks up at this. “Why not? Did he not like it?” 

“He did until he knew what was in it.” Sherlock shrugs. “I suppose it is a fairly British thing.” 

“It _is_ a somewhat disgusting concept, but it tastes good,” John says. The kettle is whistling, so he abandons the groceries and goes to turn it off. “What kind of tea did you want?” 

“Earl Grey, I was thinking,” Sherlock says. “Corey only has coffee. Which is fine, but I was craving a cup of tea.” 

“I’ll make you one,” John promises. He scoops loose tea leaves into the teapot, then pours boiling water over them, the oils from the bergamot rising to meet his nose. “So after, I assume you went directly back to his place?” 

Sherlock makes an affirmative sound. “He sort of wanted to go for a walk, but he’s got to be mindful about not being papped, and I suppose that I draw a considerably smaller amount of attention, too. It has to be difficult, being that famous. It doesn’t seem to have gone to his head, though.”

“No, I didn’t think so,” John agrees. “He seems like a genuinely nice guy.” He manages to say this without it sounding reluctant, which he thinks is pretty impressive, frankly. 

Sherlock reaches up to put away the canned things that John got. “He is,” he confirms. “So – yes. We went back to his place. It wasn’t all that late yet, so he suggested watching a film. That was interesting, seeing something like that from his perspective. He had interesting stories about the people in it, how it was made. The internal politics.” 

John glances at him. “Good,” he says, not really caring. “And you actually watched it without, er, getting distracted?” 

“Most of it,” Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth twisting. “You really do know how this goes, don’t you?” 

John shrugs apologetically. “It’s pretty typical. So…” 

He trails off, prompting, and Sherlock takes the cue. “Honestly, I found it distracting,” he admits. “I was interested in the story. I never did see the ending.” He looks down at the box of pasta that he’s holding on the counter. “If you want the specifics, we actually stayed there on the sofa. He started to kiss me, and we ended up just – touching each other, right there. Like the first time. After that, we went to bed. I wasn’t sure whether more was expected to happen there, but it didn’t. I still don’t know whether he was hoping it would or not. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask, or initiate it, either. In the morning, he asked about our case. And a bit about you, actually. I told him about Rosie, and your mother and sister.”

John is surprised by this and doesn’t know how to feel about it. The notion of him still existing for Sherlock while he’s with a mega star is kind of nice, though. “Oh,” he says. “Interesting.” He decides to leave this alone. “Was he interested in the case itself?” 

Sherlock nods. “Surprisingly so, actually. Though possibly a bit squeamish about the details.” He sends John the ghost of a smirk at this. “I suppose it’s not for everyone.” He changes the subject. “What should we do for dinner tonight?” 

John isn’t ready to drop it yet, though. “Wait a sec,” he says. “What about the rest of it? Did the thing you were hoping for happen again?” If he skirts around naming it directly, maybe that will make it easier for Sherlock to talk about, he thinks. 

Sherlock swallows and nods. “While we were still in bed,” he says. He hesitates, then looks at John. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to do it back or not. I was debating it, but – in the end, I didn’t want to wing it, without having – so I just – used my hand again.” He fidgets with the box of penne. “I hope it wasn’t boring,” he says, screwing up his face a bit. “I really am out of my depth, even with – and it still didn’t progress into that other thing, and maybe he wanted it to. I don’t know. I can’t tell, and I don’t know how to ask directly.” 

John can understand this. “Yeah, I get that,” he says sympathetically. “Learning how to read another person is unique to every person and situation.” He pauses, wondering if he should address this lack of familiarity with giving head and offer something, but it already sort of came up yesterday and was awkward then. He can’t very well offer to coach Sherlock in the art of giving a blow job without it just sounding like he wants a blow job. Which he does, but not like this. And then there’s the entire subject of penetrative sex, which he’s only versed in with regards to female bodies. They’re getting out of _his_ depth as a coach, honestly, and besides this, he knows damned well that these coachings have got to stop, for the sake of his own sanity. The last time already crossed a line. He can offer relationship advice from this point onward, and stick to that. “What do you want to do for dinner?” he asks, letting the subject revert to that. 

“Let’s stay in and cook,” Sherlock says, sounding a bit relieved that the sex talk is over. “It’s been a little while since we’ve had the time for that, with the case. And me being out.” 

“Sure,” John says, agreeing quickly. He relishes them cooking together, now more than ever, since the advent of Corey Graham in their lives. “I was sort of thinking of making a meat pie,” he says. “There was a recipe I saw a few weeks ago. I saved it on my phone, and I bought all the stuff for it – beef and lamb mince, cottage cheese, cheddar, onions, garlic, and we have all the stuff for a crust already.” 

“Mmm. That sounds good,” Sherlock comments. “What should we have with it? Mashed potatoes, do you think?” 

“Perfect. And a salad, maybe.” John smiles at him. This is nice. He checks the time. “It’s only just after two now. Why don’t we drink our tea and you can tell me about the rest of the morning, and what you and Corey did for lunch?” 

“Okay.” Sherlock collects the teapot, where their tea will be more than ready to drink by now, and carries it over to their chairs. John brings the sugar pot for Sherlock and the milk for both of them, grabs a spoon, and joins him. “He did make breakfast this time. Or brunch, perhaps. It was closer to noon by that point.” He sits down. “He didn’t want me to help, said I was his guest… which actually made me feel more awkward. Though I’m fairly comfortable around him, I suppose.”

John nods. “What did he cook?” 

“Bacon and eggs, ‘American style’,” Sherlock says, a bit dryly. “The eggs were so undercooked that they were practically cheeping. And there was toast. That was good; he bought the bread from a nearby bakery.” 

“You never have liked your eggs sunny-side up,” John comments. “He didn’t ask how you like them cooked?” 

“No, but he realised when I didn’t eat the yolks,” Sherlock says, looking chagrined. “I tried. I honestly did, but the texture – I just can’t.” 

“At least there was bacon and the toast, then,” John points out. 

“True, but he buys margarine – _margarine_ , John! Under some deluded premise that it’s healthier than butter.” Sherlock is disgusted. “He tried, though. It was kindly meant.” 

John tries his best to keep himself from laughing at this, and only partly succeeds. “Hence you bringing up the subject of supper,” he says, and Sherlock looks rueful. “Maybe we should have a snack, then. I had lunch with Mrs Hudson. She made egg sandwiches and vegetable soup and it was good, but on the light side.”

“Are there any of those scones left?” Sherlock asks hopefully. 

“Of course – I didn’t eat a dozen scones in your absence,” John throws back over his shoulder, already out of his chair and moving toward the kitchen. It’s a bit of a dig, too – they both know that Sherlock is more than capable of doing exactly that when the mood takes him, particularly when it comes to baking. He gets out a plate and arranges four scones on it, two raisin and two lemon cranberry. “You’re also in luck: I just happened to have got clotted cream. We can have a proper tea.” 

“I _did_ see it, but I’d already forgotten,” Sherlock says, perking up still further. “Have we still got raspberry jam? Never mind, I’ll just come and see.” 

John opens his mouth to say that he can check and/or bring it, then thinks of Corey not letting Sherlock help with breakfast. “Sure,” he says instead, retrieving the cream from the fridge. He gets out two small bowls and sets them on the table, scooping out a generous portion of the clotted cream into the first as Sherlock finds the raspberry jam on its shelf. “Should I warm the scones up, do you think?” 

“No. Our tea will get cold,” Sherlock says. “Besides, your mother’s scones are superlative warm or cold.” 

John smiles. “True. All right, then.” He pushes the other bowl toward Sherlock, who duly tips a large amount of jam into it. “I think we’re set now,” John says, and carries the plate of scones back into the sitting room. “So what did you do after brunch? Or did you just eat really late?” 

Sherlock shakes his head, sitting down across from him again and reaching for the teapot to fill both their mugs. “There was a little art gallery nearby that he wanted to have a look at. He asked me to come along, so I did. I suppose it was another little date, but at some point I was wondering if he was hoping I would just spend the rest of the day with him.” He pours a splash of milk into John’s mug and passes it to him. 

John accepts it. “Ta. And you didn’t want to?” he asks curiously. “I mean, you could have. Again, there was no need to rush back here if you’d wanted to.” 

Sherlock makes a thinking face. “It’s not that I didn’t want to, per se,” he says slowly. He shrugs. “I just – it’s odd, not sleeping in my own home.”

John thinks of the two years that Sherlock spent on the run and decides not to say anything about this. Or all the nights they’ve fallen asleep on a stake-out or in the back of Lestrade’s cruiser, or a taxi after a long and exhausting case. Sherlock can sleep anywhere, even a prison cell bench too short for his long legs. “Okay,” he says. “How was the gallery?” 

Sherlock makes a noncommittal sound. “Fine, I suppose. They’re more interesting when someone has stolen something.”

John grins. “Or there’s a fake.” 

“Exactly,” Sherlock agrees. He reaches for a lemon cranberry scone. “Should I put raspberry jam on this? Perhaps not. I wouldn’t want the fruits to collide.” 

“Can’t have that,” John says, but really, he’s watching Sherlock’s expressive mouth, and the way the bridge of his nose is crinkling, and trying his damnedest not to hate Corey Graham for having this precious thing that he’s somehow won. All thanks to John’s own aiding and abetting, no less. But what was he supposed to do? Just let Sherlock go on missing out, wallowing in his own insecurity and lack of experience? He’d have felt terribly forever. He thinks of something he saw in the papers that morning and changes the subject, reaching for a raison scone and watching Sherlock’s long fingers hold his knife as he lavishly spreads cream onto his scone. 

*** 

John is watching the news on the sofa when Sherlock comes out of the loo. He’s just showered, wrapped in his old blue silk dressing gown, with possibly nothing on beneath it, John notes. He clears his throat and casually crosses his legs at the knee. Sherlock admitted that he didn’t shower at Corey’s again, so after their meat pie and mash, he took himself off to do that, saying that he didn’t want to wait until the morning. John can’t speak, somehow, wondering whether Sherlock plans do just come and sit down to watch the news with that little on. He’s covered, but the silk accentuates every part of his body in a way that John really doesn’t need at the moment. 

Sherlock doesn’t sit, though. He stops, putting his hands into the pockets of the dressing gown. “I… wondered if I could ask you something,” he says, sounding awkward. “For something, rather.” 

John mentally braces himself. “What’s that?” he asks, clearing his throat again. 

Sherlock’s curls are still damp, only towelled dry. “It’s… what I said earlier, about – the penetrative sex thing. I just… I don’t know if I can handle that. I don’t know what to do. What to expect.” 

John blinks a few times. “Right, yeah. I get that. So… I mean, what do you want to do about that?” He nods at the sofa beside him. “Come on. Sit down. Let’s talk about it.” 

Sherlock comes and perches a few feet away, still overtly uncomfortable even discussing it. He folds his hands almost primly in his lap, fingers locked tightly together. 

John scans his face and feels another pang of compassion for him. “Do you want to try that?” he asks, keeping the question gentle. “Because you know you don’t have to. Nothing is required or expected. Well – I mean, I don’t know what Corey expects. But nothing is obligatory on your part.” 

“I know that,” Sherlock says, glancing quickly at him. “I do. And it’s not – a lack of interest. Just a lack of… wanting to look like an idiot. Or a virgin. Which I suppose I still am.” 

“Disagree,” John says firmly. “If you’ve had an orgasm with another person – hell, even if you haven’t – if you’ve been sexual with another person, that’s all the definition you need.” He redirects them back to the subject at hand. “Is there a position you would rather try?” he asks, trying to mask just how deeply his personal curiosity on this score actually goes. It’s something he’s wanted to know for _years_ , though he’s always cherished his own theories. 

Sherlock bites his lip. “Not… as such, but with him, I rather suspect he’d prefer to be the one to – top.” 

John nods. (Steady on, Watson.) “And how do you feel about that?” he asks evenly. “Because that’s also negotiable, of course. Just because one person prefers one thing doesn’t mean that the other person is automatically relegated to taking the other role.” 

Sherlock nods, too. “Right. Yes.” He hesitates. “I would be – open to that,” he says, still awkward, and avoiding John’s eyes. “In some respects, it would be easier – not being the one… in control. I know you’ll say that being on the bottom doesn’t necessarily mean not being in control, but – you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. Okay,” John says. He waits. “So – you think he’d like to top, and you’re okay with bottoming, and may even prefer it. Where’s the issue, then?” 

Sherlock cringes. “Well – obviously, being on the bottom would mean – a much more specifically physical experience that I haven’t yet had, and I’m – nervous. About trying that. About – the potential for pain. Or damage. Or feeling… violated is too strong a term, but – along those lines.” 

John nods again. “Sure, yeah. That makes plenty of sense.” He remembers that Sherlock wanted to ask him for something. “So… what were you wanting to ask me?” he asks, almost afraid to. 

Sherlock swallows hard. “You’re a doctor,” he says to his hands, his voice quiet. “You know how to… do that. Prostate and rectal exams. I assume you do that without causing lasting harm, unlike your average person off the street. I…” He stops and a rather eloquent silence forms in the space between them, Sherlock turning his head slightly toward John, but not looking at him. 

John finds he can barely breathe. “You know that you can also do that yourself, right?” he says, somehow getting the words out. “You know – get yourself some lube and go slowly. You can borrow mine if you haven’t got any of your own.” 

“No, I do,” Sherlock says, a muscle in his forehead twitching. “And I have, a bit. But – it’s different when it’s someone else. You _know_ it is. I’ve – tried it. Not – a lot, but – it’s more that I’m concerned that I’ll freeze up and act like – well, like someone who’s never been touched that way by another person before, because it’s exactly what it _would_ be.” He raises his eyes to meet John’s now, and they’re very intense. 

John can’t deny the truth of this. He sees Sherlock’s point exactly. To be fair, if he were about to get fucked by the likes of Corey Graham, he’d want to look like he knew what he was doing, too. And what to expect on a strictly physical note. He swallows in turn. “So… what are you asking me to do, exactly?” 

The tendons in Sherlock’s neck strain. “I wondered if you might – finger me,” he says jerkily. “Just to – to help me get used to it. As it were. It’s just that I trust you, John. I trust your expertise, both medically and – otherwise.” 

“I’ve never done this in a non-medical way,” John tells him. “I mean – sexually speaking, this is new ground for me at this point, too. But I mean, yeah, I’ve certainly done rectal exams and prostate checks. I can do this without hurting you. But that’s not to say that Corey would do it the same way, or know what he’s doing, either. I have no idea what his level of experience is when it comes to this, obviously.” 

“I know,” Sherlock says quickly. “But having had anyone else do that at all… I just feel that it would help. At least mentally, if not – physically.” 

“I’m sure it would also help physically,” John says. “Just getting used to having that muscle stretched would be good.” His eyes skate over Sherlock’s blue silk-clad form. “Were you thinking… now?” 

“If it suits?” Sherlock asks, trying very hard to sound casual. “I know you were watching the news… but I’ve just showered, in case that was… pertinent.” 

John picks up the remote and switches off the telly. “Now is fine,” he says. He wonders if he should assure Sherlock that he wasn’t concerned about his level of personal cleanliness; he knows how fastidious he generally is. He decides not to and nods toward the corridor. “Why don’t we do this in your room? Could be more comfortable. And less – exposed-feeling.” 

Sherlock agrees quickly. “Okay.”

He gets up, and they make their way down to Sherlock’s bedroom, John ducking into the loo to give his hands a good wash. Normally he would wear gloves for this, but that would seem rather too impersonal here. He’ll just have to keep himself emotionally detached from this, but not cold and clinical, either. There’s got to be a fine line to walk in there. He dries his hands on a clean towel and gives himself a dubious look in the mirror. No kissing, he tells himself sternly. So far they’ve kissed during all of their previous coachings, save for the unplanned morning after one. However, it’s got to the point where John knows he’s already in hot water, emotionally speaking. He cannot go on casually kissing Sherlock while he’s dating someone else. He turns away and goes into the bedroom, shutting off the light behind him. Sherlock is standing near the bed, still wrapped tightly in his dressing gown and trying not to fidget nervously, but his insecurity is betrayed in every movement and the tightness around his mouth. John smiles at him, just a little, for reassurance. “Would it make you feel more at ease if I took some things off, or – are you all right?” he asks. 

Sherlock’s eyes sketch down his front. “Whichever you like,” he says. “It doesn’t – I’m not uncomfortable if you stay the way you are. I want _you_ to be comfortable, or – as comfortable as possible, given – ”

He stops, and John nods. “Okay. I’ll, er, stay dressed, then.” He indicates the bed with his head. “Why don’t you keep the dressing gown on, then, and get onto the bed. On your hands and knees should be easiest. That’s usually how I’d conduct a prostate exam.” 

“All right.” Sherlock goes obediently and John follows him, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him. They rearrange themselves until they’ve found a position that works. Normally John would be standing for this, but the bed is too low and it seems too formal for this. Sherlock silently passes him a bottle of lube and buries his face on his forearms. “Okay,” he says, his face muffled. 

His entire back looks rigid with tension. John looks at him for a long moment, then thinks that Sherlock must really like Corey, to be putting himself through this for him. His gut twists a little at the thought. “Better idea,” he says spontaneously. “You’re completely tense, and obviously, that’s not going to make this any easier for you. Why don’t I give you a bit of a massage? Just – to get you acclimated to being touched at all first.” 

Sherlock is still. Then, “Okay,” he says. “If you think it would help…”

“I do. Sit up again,” John invites. “Facing away from me.”

Sherlock moves. “Is it still all right with the gown on?” he asks over his shoulder. 

John considers. “Maybe just loosen it, so that I can get at your shoulders.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock unties it and lets the blue silk slip down his upper arms, exposing his sculpted shoulders and the upper half of his back. “Like this?” 

“That’s great, yeah.” John looks around. “Pass me that hand lotion.” Sherlock reaches for it, and John squirts a good amount of it onto his palms and starts massaging Sherlock’s shoulders and the back of his neck. He’s entirely unsurprised to find how tense Sherlock’s muscles are. “Did you sleep any better last night?” he asks, digging in with his thumbs. 

“Mmm. Not really. A little, perhaps.” Sherlock’s eyes are closed. After a few minutes, his muscles relax noticeably. 

“That’s it,” John says approvingly. He decides to keep up a light stream of chat, just to keep Sherlock feeling at ease, and also to prevent it from getting awkward. As long as they both behave like this is completely normal flatmate behaviour, everything will be fine. “Do you know where we haven’t gone for awhile?” 

“Where?” Sherlock relaxes still more, his voice lower. 

“That little hole-in-the-wall Chinese place that’s got the amazing glazed duck,” John says. “Over in Westbourne Green.” 

“Ohhh, yes! They have amazing dim sum, too! Should we go tomorrow?” Sherlock asks spontaneously. “We haven’t had dim sum in ages. Months.” 

“Not since before Mary died,” John agrees. “Over a year, then. Let’s definitely go. It’s Sunday, so it’ll be busy, but that doesn’t matter.” 

“That’s when they’ll have their best dim sum anyway,” Sherlock points out. 

“True. Excellent point.” John massages further down, between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and around his rib cage. He can feel the scars left from the times when Sherlock was badly whipped in Serbia, and one time before that in Romania, but he knows that Sherlock hates talking about it and doesn’t bring it up. It’s honestly just so nice to be allowed to touch him in any way at all. He hasn’t kissed Sherlock, yet this is undeniably intimate. “How is it feeling?” he asks, keeping his tone light and attempting not to sound like he’s trying to be seductive. 

“Good,” Sherlock says. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, evidently filtering out whatever else he was thinking of saying. 

John kind of wants him to say it, yet knows that he shouldn’t ask. “Good,” he says simply. After another ten minutes or so, Sherlock’s back and shoulders finally feel considerably looser and Sherlock’s breathing has slowed and deepened. John squeezes his shoulders. “You can lie forward again,” he says gently, and that definitely comes out sounding too seductive. 

Sherlock shifts onto his front again. “Like – this?” 

“Yeah. That’s perfect.” Talk, John reminds himself. Explain. That’s how to keep this an actual coaching and not just – them doing this. “I’m going to massage your arse now, and work up to it from there, okay? Tell me if you’re feeling uncomfortable at any point, though, all right?” 

Sherlock nods, his face turned sideways on his arms this time. “Okay. So far it’s fine.” 

“Good.” John decides to start above Sherlock’s dressing gown this time, resuming where he left off at Sherlock’s lower back and rubbing his thumbs in circles, shifting gradually lower until he’s actually touching Sherlock’s silk-covered arse. He goes slowly, just passing his palms over the firm, warm curves at first, then squeezing a little, then starting to massage again. “Still okay?” he asks, clearing his throat. 

Sherlock nods. “Mm-hm.” 

His voice is lower than ever and John’s mouth fills with saliva just at hearing it in that register, somehow. He swallows and carries on. “I’m going to go underneath now,” he says softly, and Sherlock makes a vague sound to show that he heard. John slides his hands up under the dressing gown and onto Sherlock’s arse without uncovering him entirely, and goes on massaging his skin and muscles directly. Sherlock makes a sound in his throat and John glances quickly at him. He’s blinking rapidly and turns his face downward onto his arms again, his body tensing up a little, and John realises that he’s got aroused by this. The knowledge goes directly to his cock, which hasn’t been entirely at parade rest this entire time as it is. He withdraws his hands and reaches for the lube. “Okay,” he says, looking at in the direction of Sherlock’s hidden face. “I’m going to put my fingers in now, all right? I’ll start with one and we’ll see how it goes.” 

Sherlock nods again. “Okay.” His voice is muffled. 

John slicks up his fingers. He’s never done this without gloves before, but it’s got to be pretty similar. “You can get back up on your knees now,” he says, and Sherlock shifts as directed. John puts his left hand back on Sherlock’s arse cheek, twisted around a bit awkwardly, but that doesn’t matter, and runs his hand up the centre with his other, his middle finger trailing into the tantalising divide, stopping when he reaches the entrance to Sherlock’s body. Sherlock doesn’t tense up or clamp around him, though. “You’re doing well,” he says, his voice nice and steady. He massages the hole gently. “How are you doing?” 

“Fine,” Sherlock says into his hands. His body is quivering, only just perceptibly. 

“Good,” John says. He rubs a little more, then slides his middle finger inside – quickly, professionally, painlessly. 

Sherlock gasps, and now his arse does tense, clamping around John’s finger. “Oh – that’s – ” He sounds breathless and doesn’t finish the sentence. 

“Is it – okay?” John asks, watching him in concern. 

Sherlock seems to be having difficulty breathing. “Yes,” he gets out. “You – can keep going.” 

Does he like this, then? John applies every ounce of the deductive reasoning that Sherlock’s taught him over the years. He very much suspects that Sherlock does like it, all nervousness aside. He moves his finger in and out a little, just stretching the tight ring of muscle and waiting for the spasms to pass. When they do, he adds another finger, which is very tight. “Okay?” he checks, once he’s got them both fully inside Sherlock. 

Sherlock makes a sound that John can’t decipher. 

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that,” John says. “Are you – ”

“It’s fine!” Sherlock sounds a bit desperate. “It’s – considerably more than fine, if you want to know. Embarrassingly more so.” 

John cranes his head surreptitiously, but the dressing gown is blocking his view, along with Sherlock’s position. “Oh – are you – ” He stops, asking himself why he’s asking. Is he offering? He hesitates. “Do you want me to… give you a hand?” he asks. (Fuck it. In for a penny and all that.)

Sherlock is breathing heavily. “You – don’t have to,” he tries, though it doesn’t sound particularly like he doesn’t want it. 

Maybe he can’t bring himself to ask for it, though. John bites his lip, then just says it. “It’s not like it would be the first time I’ve touched you,” he points out. “I don’t mind. I mean – I’m already inside you…”

Sherlock swallows audibly. Then he nods against his hands. “In that case… if you’re offering – ”

He sounds incredibly awkward, as though hating himself for even admitting that he wants it, and John silently resolves to not let him feel stupid over it. “Yeah, I am,” he says firmly. He turns on the bed so that he’s sitting with one leg partly under himself and the other stretched out over Sherlock’s calves. He gets a little more lube without extracting his fingers, then Sherlock pulls the dressing gown out of the way and John reaches beneath him to find his erection, hot and hard in his hand. His own cock is stiffer than anything now, pressed up hard against the zip of his jeans. He begins to stroke Sherlock’s and actively presses into his prostate now, gently, not wanting to overstimulate him. It builds rapidly, though, Sherlock’s arse gripping at his fingers in a way that’s got no business being as much of a turn-on as it is, his cock throbbing in John’s hand. 

He’s panting and bucking into John’s touch, and when he starts to moan – which he’s never allowed himself to do in John’s presence, at least – John knows that he’s close. He goes faster on both ends, wanting to shunt himself even closer to rut frantically against Sherlock’s hip, but he can’t let himself do that. Sherlock gasps again. “John – I’m – _oh_ – !!” His entire body spasms as the orgasm hits, his voice turning to breath as he spurts out several impressive streams of release, which John’s feverish brain reminds him is typical of prostate orgasms. It goes on for several moments, Sherlock almost sounding agonised while it lasts, and then he goes limp, slumping onto the sheets, panting as his arse continues spasming around John’s fingers. 

John is so turned on that he can’t even speak. He pulls his fingers out as gently as he can manage and wants to touch himself with them, right along with his come-spattered other hand. He can’t get himself away to the sanctuary of his own room or the shower to wank himself into oblivion until he’s made sure that Sherlock’s all right, though. “You okay?” he asks, and his own level of arousal is immediately made clear by his own, breathless voice. 

Sherlock’s back is heaving. “Very,” he says hoarsely. He hasn’t missed this, though, and pushes himself over onto his back, his cock still flushed red and semi-hard, canted off to the right. “John…” 

John swallows, feeling guilty. He can’t deny his own arousal and knows it would be pointless to try. Their eyes meet and he doesn’t know what to say. 

“You’re – ” Sherlock looks pointedly at his crotch, which is tented almost comically. 

“It’s arousing to get someone else off, okay?” John knows he sounds defensive, sitting there with his palms turned up. 

Sherlock catches this, too, and reaches for the box of tissues on his night stand. “Here,” he says. “And – it’s reassuring, if you want to know. If you hadn’t reacted in any way, I would feel even more awkward now.” He moves, too quickly for John to react, on his knees and leaning forward, a hand on John’s thigh. “Let me try this,” he says, his voice changing from breathless to intense in a heartbeat. “You know I need to learn. It’s something I could do for you, in return for everything you’ve done for me, to make this – possible. You’re already aroused. There’s no better time for me to try it.” 

John swallows. He’s so aroused that he can’t make himself say the words to deny Sherlock, insist that he doesn’t want this. He _does_ – he wants it so badly he can taste it. And he knows precisely what Sherlock is offering – or asking for? – he wants to go down on him. He’s also got a point: this _is_ the perfect time, and would maybe also spare him the awkwardness of being the only one who’s just got off, too. He feels himself nodding, moral quandary aside. “Yeah. Okay.” His voice comes out half-strangled, half-whispered. 

Sherlock’s eyes gleam. He guides John down onto his back, following and looming over him, his hand finding its way to John’s crotch and rubbing him through his jeans, and John moans. Sherlock looks pleased, massaging him with greater boldness than he’s shown before, then slips the button of John’s jeans open with the same hand. He moves down now, and together they get the jeans down far enough for Sherlock to prise John’s aching cock out of the confines of his clothes. Sherlock puts himself in between John’s thighs, lying on top of John’s bunched-up jeans, which effectively renders him unable to move, and bends to run his nose along the length of John’s cock. “You know I’ve never done this before,” Sherlock says, his voice low, his gaze flicking up to meet John’s. “Any – pointers? I know you’ve haven’t, either, but from the perspective of the party on the receiving end.” 

John is so hard that he almost couldn’t care less, as long as Sherlock touches his cock just about any way possible about now. Coaching, he reminds himself. “Er – just – try to keep your teeth covered,” he gets out, speaking with difficulty. “The head is more sensitive, so you can spend a good bit of time there, but – touch the rest of it, too. You can – improvise a bit. It’s not an exact science.” 

Sherlock smirks at this. “I’ll observe and deduce, then,” he says. “What about – testicles?” 

John nods. “Yeah. Those are – on offer, too. For the touching. Just – try things, and see.” 

“Okay.” Sherlock studies his cock for another second, which is practically painful at this point, then leans forward and swipes his tongue over the head of John’s cock. 

John nearly shouts in response, his hips jerking upward. “Ahh – ” he gasps. “Yeah – that’s good, just – ”

Sherlock anticipates him and puts his mouth entirely around John’s head, sucking, and John nearly dies on the spot. Even better, it occurs to Sherlock to add his tongue here, too, the wet velvet of it also rubbing against him and John’s fingers curl into fists in Sherlock’s sheets. He’s possibly harder than he’s ever been in his life, already leaking into Sherlock’s mouth. He can feel Sherlock swallowing, then he lifts off and licks at the shaft of John’s erection, then wraps his fingers around it and goes back to sucking at the head.

The details blur as John pants out encouragements, but it’s mostly just breath and non-verbal noises that he can’t help making. Pleasure is swimming through his veins and threatening to erupt violently. “Sherlock – ” He doesn’t get to finish his warning, though, because just then Sherlock experimentally rubs and then tugs at John’s balls and that sends him right over the edge, coming in blazing hot streams, the pleasure white-hot behind his eyes, and he’s shouting, thrusting up into Sherlock’s mouth and – shit, that’s not – that wasn’t supposed to happen, but it’s too late – he’s still coming and Sherlock is still sucking, his fist still working over John. 

It subsides at last and Sherlock sits up on his knees, dabbing at the corner of his mouth and looking pleased with himself. 

It takes John a moment to recover his powers of speech, but when he does, he says, still breathing hard, “Sherlock – I can’t believe you just swallowed! You shouldn’t have done that! Safe sex, remember?” 

Sherlock frowns a little. “It’s fine, John. I know your medical chart.” 

“It’s _not_ fine,” John counters, still panting. “You’re – sleeping with two different people, for all intents and purposes!” 

Sherlock’s chin juts out a little. “I haven’t exchanged bodily fluids with Corey,” he says, a bit stiffly. “And of course I wouldn’t without knowing his medical history.” 

John is still lying there with his cock hanging out, which puts him at a specific disadvantage in this argument. He tugs his underwear back up and tucks himself away with some care, then lifts his hips to pull his jeans up and pushes himself into a sitting position. “It’s a matter of principle,” he says, keeping his voice even. He doesn’t want to shame Sherlock over this, or make him feel terrible about it. After all, he _is_ right – he does know all of John’s medical history, just as John knows his. He saw Sherlock’s chart while he was recovering in Culverton Smith’s creepy hospital. _All_ of it. He’s clean in every respect. “I just want you to be careful,” he says, calmer now. 

“I will be,” Sherlock says, still defensive. “It just seemed like the thing to do in the moment. I won’t swallow when I try it on Corey. Satisfied?” 

John feels a bit badly now. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry – I just – yeah. It’s a bit of an odd situation, and I just….” 

Sherlock watches him carefully, still wary. “I understand your concern,” he says, still a bit stiff. He blinks a few times. “Was that… all right, though?” 

John can’t help it: he laughs and shakes his head. “Er, yeah,” he says, squinting at Sherlock. “One of the best blow jobs I’ve ever had, if you want to know.” 

Sherlock brightens visibly. “Really? You’re not just saying that to be kind?” 

“I don’t think ‘kindness’ produces that much come last I checked,” John says dryly. “No – it was really good, Sherlock. You’re going to be just fine.” He hesitates. “Corey’s a lucky man.” 

Sherlock waves this off. “Your – what you did was… really good, too. And the massage. Thank you.” 

John nods, still smiling ruefully. “Yeah. No problem.” 

“What are friends for?” Sherlock quips, a bit sardonically. 

“Yeah. That line doesn’t, er, seem to be entirely adequate in this case, but I’ll take it,” John says. He gets to his feet. “I should get ready for bed. What time do you want to go for dim sum?” 

“Around eleven?” Sherlock suggests, looking up at him. 

John nods. “Okay.” He crosses his arms. He wants to kiss Sherlock more than anything. And then stay down here with him, curl himself around Sherlock from behind and go on touching his incredible body all night long, make him feel new kinds of pleasure that he’s never felt before, never allowed himself to feel before. But this can’t happen: Corey gets to do that, be that. Spend whole nights with Sherlock. John’s the one laying the road to allow it, as he agreed to. God knows he owes him that much, considering some of their history, particularly on his part. No: it’s good that he’s helping Sherlock to have this, if that’s what he wants. He doesn’t regret it. “Good night,” he says, and if his voice comes out a bit tight, Sherlock doesn’t comment on it. 

“Good night,” he says back, and John makes himself turn and walk out of the room. 

*** 

They spend Monday morning listening to potential clients and turn all of them away, Sherlock solving over half their cases within five minutes’ questioning. Then Corey calls after lunch and he disappears into his bedroom to talk, lowering his voice out John’s hearing range. John sighs and busies himself with tidying up the kitchen, his arms elbow-deep in a sink of dishes when Sherlock comes back out, looking faintly pleased about something or other. 

“Oh!” he says. “You shouldn’t have started without me. I would have helped.” 

“It’s fine,” John says. “You can dry, if you like.” 

Sherlock selects a clean tea towel from the drawer and joins him at the sink. “We don’t have plans tonight, do we?” 

John shakes his head. “None that I’m aware of. Why? I’m guessing you do, now?” 

Sherlock makes an affirmative sound. “Corey wants to see an opera, of all things, so he called to see if I’d be interested in that.” He shrugs. “Better than some sporting event, I suppose.” 

John laughs. A grateful client once gave them tickets to Wimbledon and Sherlock spent the entire thing either bored out of his skull, or else making audible deductions about the people around them, John shaking with laughter and trying to simultaneously shush him and also watch the tennis. “Which opera?” he asks, picking a mug out of the water and scrubbing it clean. 

“Cosi fan tutte,” Sherlock says. “It’s Mozart. I’ve never seen it, but I’m sure it will be well-written, if nothing else.” 

“Going for dinner first?” John inquires. 

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. He pauses, towelling a plate dry. “He wanted to know where I thought we should go. He asked where you and I like to go.” 

John’s stomach clenches, though he knows this is stupid. “What did you tell him?” 

Sherlock frowns at the plate, then carries it over to the cupboard, creating more distance between them. “I said I didn’t think he’d really like our sort of thing,” he says, a bit distantly. “I mean… we go to some very nice places, you and I. But we also go to little places like the Chinese on the corner. It’s… not the sort of place I’d suggest to someone like him.”

John thinks of how Sherlock suggested it to him only twenty-four hours after they met. Should he be insulted or honoured by this? No – honoured, definitely, he reassesses. He knows what Sherlock means: Corey is a glamorous mega celebrity, used to fine dining and the sort of cuisine that goes with his multi-million dollar film fees. “Right, yeah,” he says, endeavouring to keep his voice even. 

Sherlock closes the cupboard door, his back still to John. “Besides,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t… share our places with him. Not the ones that we’ve always gone to, always loved. That’s our thing.” 

He comes back over, glancing apprehensively at John to gauge his reaction. John has to admit that he’s unexpectedly touched by this. “I see,” he says carefully. He ducks his head. “I – appreciate that.” He concentrates particularly hard on the next dish he washes and deliberately lightens his tone. “So where have you decided to go, then?” 

“Some place called Simpson’s in the Strand,” Sherlock says, sounding slightly relieved at the shift in subject. “Corey looked up the menu and read parts of it to me. I think he’s worried that I didn’t like the last place he chose because of the oysters. He asked me what sort of places we usually go because I think he was trying to accommodate me. It’s rather hard to admit that, while forty-five pound entrées of prime rib and whatnot are great, what you and I typically go for is sushi on half-price night and greasy spoon breakfast joints. I told him we also can’t afford the likes of the places he usually goes, not every day, at least.” 

“True, though we also go to nicer places, like you said,” John points out. He puts the last of the cups into the drying rack and drains the sink, rinsing it out. “Cup of tea? Or have you got to leave soon?” 

“I should probably figure out what to wear,” Sherlock admits. He checks the time. “We’re supposed to eat early because of the opera. I’m meeting him at the restaurant at five.” 

John privately wonders why Corey doesn’t come and pick him up, but perhaps Sherlock doesn’t want him coming here, doesn’t want these two separate lives overlapping. “Let’s go and have a look at the options, then,” he suggests. 

*** 

Later, as he’s watching a rerun of an episode he’s already seen, John thinks moodily about the state of his life. This is what it’s come to: he’s living in a triangle situation. An unbalanced one. What’s the name for that? An isosceles, his brain provides, dredging up the term from his youth. It’s a triangle with two long sides and one short one. Which of them is the short side, then? He rather thinks it’s him – he gets the washing up and putting away of the groceries and the gritty crime work and the cooking, and Corey gets the heart of it – the romance and the sex. Then again, he supposes that an argument could be made for Corey getting the short side of it, too – shut out of Sherlock’s favourite restaurants, slightly too squeamish to hear about disembowelments, much less be present for them – like most people, John reasons, trying to be fair – getting Sherlock’s nights but not his days. Not his daily life and routine. John sits there, musing gloomily about it, and can’t decide. He’s pretty sure it’s him, though. What he wouldn’t give to be allowed to touch Sherlock with the very intent he was talking about during their first coaching – to let his hands convey some fraction of the rather enormous amount John can admit to himself, albeit very privately, that he feels for Sherlock. And with him, Sherlock wouldn’t have to pretend. Any of it – he wouldn’t have to pretend to like oysters or runny egg yolks or opera, or be on his best, politest behaviour all the time. Wouldn’t have to pretend he knows anything about sex. If he felt the same way about John, then he could just kiss him and let his own feelings inform him how to do it. And John could hold him properly, touch him like he means it, let him explore and make it feel safe for him. He’d do anything with Sherlock, anything he wanted. 

He sits there in the darkened sitting room and closes his eyes, for a moment unable to do anything other than anguish over how very badly he wishes it could be. 

***


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

 

Sherlock phones him from Corey’s condo late the following morning, excitedly asking John to meet him at a crime scene, so John stops hanging morosely about wondering if he should wait for Sherlock or just start making lunch and dives for his jacket and shoes. 

“Lestrade’s already been there for three hours and they can’t make heads or tails or it, the idiots,” Sherlock says in John’s ear, sounding happy. 

John grins into the phone, fighting to keep it balanced between his ear and shoulder as he ties his shoelaces in a hurry, teetering precariously on one foot. “Naturally. I’m heading down to get a taxi now! I just got a text – was that the address?” 

“Of course. Meet you there.” Sherlock disconnects and John dashes down the stairs with a swoop of joy in his gut. 

Miraculously, a cab swerves over on his first try and he gets in, fumbling with his phone to procure the address. It’s in Kennington, on the South Bank. “Hurry,” John tells the driver, and sits back, his heart pounding, the anticipated spike of adrenaline already surging through his veins. Plus, he’s also pleased about it having interrupted Sherlock and Corey’s day, whatever they had planned. This is unkind, but he can’t help it. John drums his fingers on his knee and watches the city passing by until the cab stops in a dodgy-looking back street, a cautious distance away from the yellow-taped crime scene. 

“This do you?” the driver asks dubiously. 

“Yeah, perfect, thanks very much,” John says, already holding out his money. He gets out and hurries over to where Sherlock and Lestrade are gathered around a car with the driver’s seat open. 

Sherlock looks up and an unfiltered smile breaks out over his face. “John! Good, you’re here. I just arrived, myself! Come and see this!” 

John reaches them and Lestrade steps back to let him peer into the car, Sherlock passing him a pair of gloves. John takes them, already cataloguing his own observations at first glance. An unremarkable, middle-aged man is sat in the driver’s seat, his hands still on the wheel, eyes and mouth closed. There are no outward signs of damage whatsoever, no obvious wounds, blood, defensive markings – nothing obvious at all, in fact. He bends forward and sniffs at the man’s mouth, but he doesn’t smell anything. He pries an eyelid open and checks for petechial hemorrhaging, but that’s fine, too. Hmm. He decides to check the airway and makes to pry the victim’s mouth open. It won’t move. John frowns and pulls harder. His fingers leave an imprint on the man’s skin, but his jaw won’t budge. “Well, this is odd,” John comments. Experimentally, he pulls off a glove and touches the victim’s cheek. It’s cold as ice. That explains it. John straightens up, careful to avoid bashing his head on the roof of the car as he does so, and turns to Sherlock and Lestrade. “He’s frozen,” he states. 

Sherlock frowns, pulls off one of his own gloves and reaches inside to touch the victim’s face. “You’re right,” he says. “Standard frozen, do you think?” 

John looks around them. The spring day is grey but not all that cold. “It’s what, fifteen or sixteen Celsius? Can’t be a natural form of freezing, not unless he was put here within the hour, and you said that the Yard has been here for hours already. Has to be liquid nitrogen.” 

Sherlock nods. “That was my first thought.” He turns to Lestrade. “In that case, you’ll need to have the body thawed before we can get a time of death. Have someone collect him, and we’ll work on processing the scene.” 

“All right.” Lestrade calls one of his sergeants over and barks out an order or two. 

“Do we know who he was?” John asks. 

Lestrade nods. “Yeah. Found his wallet in his jacket pocket. Name’s Karl Bonning. No record of any kind, no prints on file.” 

“A puzzle, then.” Sherlock looks faintly pleased. “Start building a list of known associates. Do we have his address? Is this his house?” 

“Yeah,” Lestrade says again. “Supposedly lives alone. My team are questioning the neighbours, but so far no one seems to have seen anything. A jogger called anonymously to report that he’d been sitting there in his car from the beginning of her run until she passed by again an hour later.” 

Sherlock’s ears perk up. “An anonymous caller? She wouldn’t leave her name?” 

“No. Said she didn’t want to get involved,” Lestrade says. “Why?” 

Sherlock turns to John. “Let’s start with that, while we’re waiting for the coroner to remove the body,” he says, his eyes gleaming. To Lestrade he says, “I assume you traced the call.” 

“It would have been recorded, yeah,” Lestrade says, staring at him. “You really think that’s it? That the killer called it in?” 

“I’m not ruling anything out. Get us the info. We’ll be inside, meanwhile. Come on, John.” Sherlock waits for him, which is a more recent courtesy, then strides off in the direction of the house, John right in sync beside him. 

They fall immediately into their usual pattern of seamless teamwork, John feeding the right questions and occasionally managing to make an observation that Sherlock has missed, while Sherlock sees thousands of things that no one else would have noticed. They process information and grill neighbours and examine the car. At one moment in the later afternoon, John’s stomach rumbles and he remembers that he never did have lunch. They’re both sitting at Karl Bonning’s kitchen table, sorting through his laptop and financial paperwork, the rest of Lestrade’s team processing the car now that they’ve finished with it.

“So how was the opera?” John asks, still sifting through banking papers. 

Sherlock glances at him over the top of Bonning’s laptop. “Good, actually. Funny. And the music was beautiful. I think you’d have found it rather long, though.” 

This bothers John. Is Sherlock saying that he’s just discovered a new thing he likes doing, but that he’d rather do it with Corey because it’s essentially too sophisticated for him? He feels his eyebrows rise a little, his jaw tightening. “Well, one never knows,” he says, a bit stiffly. “How was the restaurant?” 

“Also pretty good,” Sherlock says, his voice slightly unfocused as he clicks through Bonning’s emails. “I had lobster thermidor and brussels sprouts with chestnuts and then baked Alaska for pudding. It slightly backfired, though.” 

“Oh?” John casts him a quick look over Bonning’s March bank statement. “How so?” 

“I think all this rich food is starting to be a little much for me,” Sherlock admits. “My digestive system was in slight rebellion.” 

“That’s rough,” John says, with real sympathy. “I imagine that didn’t make sitting through a long opera more enjoyable, per se.” 

“It was mostly just rumbly for the first half,” Sherlock says, with a grimace. “I had a less than pleasant trip to the bathroom at the interval and it was a little better after that. I didn’t want to tell Corey, as it was obviously rather embarrassing. I was forced to mention it once we got back to his place. I almost decided to come home, but I wasn’t feeling _that_ unwell, and I felt – he was being so decent about it. So I ended up sleeping there, but nothing happened. That part is getting more comfortable. Considerably more so. I actually slept fairly well this time. And in the morning, I… tried out my new skill on him.” 

“And?” John stops being able to focus on the dry paperwork in his hands. “How was that received?” 

“Quite well, actually,” Sherlock says, not meeting his eyes, colour staining his cheeks faintly. “He seemed – enthusiastic.” 

“And you?” John can’t help asking. Did you like doing it?” He wants to tack on _as much as you did yesterday_ , but can’t quite make himself say it. 

Sherlock nods, still red in the face. “I did,” he admits. “It _is_ arousing to do that to someone. For someone. Whichever.” 

John blinks and nods, trying to quell his intense jealousy at the very notion of Sherlock not only blowing Corey Graham, but enjoying it. “Did he… return the favour?” 

Sherlock demurs. “I still wasn’t feeling a hundred percent. So – while the flesh was willing, as it were, I didn’t want to – er, risk anything. We went out for breakfast at a place nearby. I had a ham and cheese croissant and some peppermint tea, and it seems to have been cautiously accepted.” 

John snickers. “Good, then,” he says. “How are you feeling now?” 

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “A little hungry, actually, but we’ve got the case.”

“True. So I am, though. I’ve also only had breakfast. But I’m not in a rush,” John assures him. “I mean, now that we know that the jogger called from a burn phone, and just the fact that she went back to the same location an hour later, but doesn’t seem to be one of the neighbours based on her voice from the recording, it does seem suspicious.” 

“ _And_ the fact that she didn’t want to leave her name,” Sherlock adds. “Hunches are your department, though. We’ve got to prove the connection and find a motive.” 

“Of course,” John says. “So let’s solve this thing, then.” 

Sherlock looks up at him, then smiles. He ducks his head again, types something and clicks, and their conversation subsides. 

The smile nonetheless renders John stupidly warm for far too long a time after it. 

*** 

They solve the case by nine in the evening. It _was_ the jogger: bitter ex-girlfriend getting revenge for a discovered affair, as it turned out. Sharon Jackson, who works in a government chemistry laboratory, is arrested in her home eight blocks to the east at half-past eight, to her very great surprise, and comes quietly. Sherlock turns to John without hesitation. “Dinner?” he suggests. “I’m starving.” 

“God, yes! So am I!” John thinks of the trek back to Baker Street. “Is there anything decent around here? I’d eat just about anything at this point.” 

“Let me check.” Sherlock gets out his phone. “Any particular cuisine?” 

“Literally anything,” John declares. He takes out his own phone and has a look. 

“Italian?” Sherlock suggests, after perusing their nearby options for a moment or two. “This place seems to have decent reviews. It’s nothing fancy, but speaking personally, I’d prefer that, at least right now.” 

“Agreed – comfort food would fit the ticket perfectly, and Italian is that,” John says. “How’s your stomach?” 

“Fine, now,” Sherlock says. “I’d just prefer to avoid anything particularly unknown.” 

“Okay, sure,” John agrees. “How far is this place?” 

“Two blocks, one street over.” Sherlock looks up, then points. “That way.” 

“Take us there,” John commands, and they fall into step together. 

They talk about the case a little on the way there, but John is paying more attention to Sherlock himself, thinking that he would do this for the rest of his life if he possibly could: work with Sherlock, walk anywhere with him, eat just about anything with him. If only he could have the rest of it, too! But for right now, the prospect of pasta or pizza or anything substantial, delicious, and filling is pretty perfect. 

Sherlock stops under an overhanging canopy. “I think this is it,” he says, and pulls the door open. 

It’s not busy this late on a Tuesday, and they’re seated at once. It smells good and John’s empty stomach rumbles noisily. They discuss their options, and settle on fried mozzarella and calamari for starters, then pappardelle with sausage and smoked cheese for John and tagliatelle with meatballs and parmesan for Sherlock. When the server comes to take their order, Sherlock spontaneously asks John if they wouldn’t like some salad, too, and when John agrees, adds a large mixed green salad to their order. John also asks him to bring them each a glass of house white and Sherlock makes sounds of approval at this, too. The server beams at them and hastens away. 

“I can’t wait,” John says. “I’m hungry enough to eat half the menu.” 

Sherlock makes a conciliatory gesture. “You could, but I think it was plasticised. You’d be better off just waiting for our salad.” 

John bursts into undignified laughter that comes out through his nose. Somehow, in his tired, hungry state, this is far too funny. He gets hold of himself, Sherlock looking pleased, and says, _sotto voce_ , “Well, it would be a good source of fibre, the plastic aside. Didn’t consider that, did you?” 

Sherlock smirks. “Possibly not. Fine, then, I’ll ask him to bring it back.” 

John is spared having to respond to this by the arrival of their wine. He shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach, but he wants to taste it. “To another successful case,” he says, holding up his glass. 

Sherlock clinks his own against it obligingly. “Quite.” He sips. “That’s nice,” he comments. “Meanwhile, I was thinking that it’s been awhile since we had your family over. Should we invite them for supper tomorrow night, or Thursday if tomorrow doesn’t work?” 

John is a bit surprised. They have had Mum and Harry over once or twice before, but it’s not a particularly frequent thing. What’s this about, he wonders, but doesn’t ask. “We could do that,” he says cautiously. “Why now, particularly?” 

Sherlock shrugs. Their salads are served, with a promise that the mozzarella and calamari won’t be far behind, and they begin to eat. “I just thought it might be nice. I missed seeing them last week. And evidently I was remiss in terms of commenting on your mother’s new blouse.” 

John snorts at this. “And the fake pearls, don’t forget.” 

“How could I?” Sherlock stabs at a tomato. “What do you think?” 

John nods. “Sure,” he says. “We can invite Mrs Hudson, too.” 

“Naturally. She would never forgive us if we didn’t.” Sherlock studies him. “What should we cook?” 

The mozzarella arrives: fried squares of gooey, melted cheese served with marinara sauce for dipping, followed immediately by a plate of sizzling calamari in a nest of shredded lettuce, with a dish of tzatziki and another of lemon wedges. John reaches for a piece of mozzarella and cuts it in two with his fork to let the steam escape. “Hmm. Maybe we should roast a couple of chickens?” he suggests. “We could make that cauliflower mac and cheese again to go with it?” 

Sherlock nods thoughtfully. “Yes, that sounds good. Your sister loves cauliflower. What about something green to go with it? Asparagus, for your mother?” 

John frowns at him, then blows on his cheese. “How do you know she likes asparagus?” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t, but she’s got a fridge magnet of a stalk of asparagus. People typically don’t decorate with representations of objects they hate.” He looks quizzically at John, who is eating his very hot mozzarella square and boggling internally at Sherlock having noticed that. “So, does she like it?” he presses. 

John nods, reaching for his serviette and dabbing at the corner of his mouth. “She does, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t believe you still manage to amaze me after all this time, but you do.” 

Sherlock pauses, then smiles at him, warmly enough to make warmth bloom in the pit of John’s stomach. “The calamari is excellent,” he says, pushing the plate closer to John. “Try it.” 

John notices how he didn’t respond, not directly, but it’s okay. It’s more than okay. The little restaurant is nothing fancy at all, but the food is good and there’s only one other party besides them. He reaches over to spear a ring or two of breaded calamari, still thinking about the pasta to come with happy anticipation. It’s more than the pasta, he knows. He just likes – this. Having dinner with Sherlock. Solving crimes with Sherlock. Making plans for the future with him, even something as basic and unglamorous as having John’s family over to eat. It’s all good. 

*** 

John stifles a laugh at Mrs Hudson’s attempts to woo Rosie into playing with her as he stands next to Sherlock, who is carving the chickens they roasted as John dishes up the asparagus and pours melted lemon butter over it. 

“Do you want me to read you your book?” Mrs Hudson cajoles. 

“No!” Rosie toddles over to Harry with it. “Ha-ee!” she demands. 

“She never wants me to read to her when I actually offer,” Harry tells Mrs Hudson dryly. “It’s only because you offered.” To her niece, she says sternly, “That’s not nice. Go and show Mrs Hudson your book.” 

“No!” But Rosie goes back to Mrs Hudson, a look of clear dubiousness on her face. 

“Do you want to come up?” Mrs Hudson asks, a note of caution to her voice. 

“No!” But Rosie immediately follows this with “Up!”, so Mrs Hudson pulls her into her lap.

“That’s it,” she says soothingly. “Perfect. Now: who’s this?” she asks, pointing to the first picture. 

Rosie says something that sounds a bit like ‘Big Bird’, and Mrs Hudson coos approvingly. 

Mum pushes herself out of Sherlock’s chair and comes over. “Anything I can do?” she offers. 

John knows that she feels awkward out of her own territory, but isn’t sure whether turning down her offer would be kind or feel like being shut out. “Sure, if you’d like to put that on the table, that’d be great!” he says, holding out the dish of asparagus. 

She takes it and looks down at it. “That butter?” she asks. 

“Lemon butter,” John confirms. 

His mother raises an eyebrow at this. “How posh,” she says, with a glance at Sherlock that says clearly that she attributes this rise in John’s palate to him, albeit not necessarily with disapproval. 

John just smiles and hands her a small pair of serving tongs for it. “Take those, too,” he says, and she does. He goes back to Sherlock. “The cauliflower’s out. Is this plate ready to go?” 

Sherlock nods. “I thought I’d just carve them both, save us the trouble later on.” 

“Good plan.” John takes the serving platter, the chicken steaming and fragrant, sage and garlic and rosemary filling the kitchen. “All right, everyone, I think we’re ready to eat. Mrs H, you can come and sit here. Harry, Mum, you’re on the far side, there. Sherlock will be on the end, and Rosie and I’ll be on this side.” 

They all take their places, Sherlock kitty-corner to John’s left. Rosie is beside him on the right, ostensibly so that he can look after feeding her, but with Mrs H on her other side, he knows he won’t be doing much of that, which is fine. They can both help. It’s mainly meant to give his mother and sister a break. Meanwhile, Mum is on Sherlock’s other side, across from John, and conveniently also serving as a buffer between Sherlock and Harry: it’s the perfect arrangement, even if fitting six people around the kitchen table is a bit of a feat. John had toyed very briefly with the idea of offering to Sherlock to invite Corey, too, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Sherlock hadn’t suggested it, either, and besides, there’s literally no room for him around the table as it is. Never mind: it would have been odd, anyway. 

They dig into the food: the aromatic roast chicken, plus their creamy, cheesy cauliflower ‘mac’ and cheese, and the citrusy, buttery asparagus. Harry reaches for her glass of lemon iced tea that John made that afternoon. “So, Sherlock,” she says, a slight edge to her voice. “John tells us that you’re dating someone.” 

Sherlock chews his mouthful of food, not looking at John, his eyes fixed on Harry’s. He swallows, then nods. “I suppose I am, yes.” His voice is even, neither defensive nor offended. 

“Interesting,” Harry says coolly. “And he’s quite famous, I hear.” 

“You could say that.” Sherlock cuts a spear of asparagus and lifts a piece to his mouth. 

Mum clears her throat. Sherlock already dutifully raved about the new blouse when they arrived, getting the balance just right between enthusiasm without crossing the line into insincerity, and she was pleased as punch. He also thanked her wholeheartedly for the gift of the scones, which are long gone, and she was delighted. “How long has that been going on, then?” she ventures, clearly not wanting to overstep. 

Sherlock shrugs, just a slight lift of his left shoulder. “Not all that long. A few weeks.” 

John clears his throat. “Harry, if you’ll give me your plate, I’ll give you some of this cauliflower.” 

Harry hands over her plate, but her eyes are still on Sherlock, clearly not finished with the subject. “So who is it, then?” 

John intervenes hastily. “Can we drop it?” he asks, glaring at his sister as he scoops cheesy cauliflower out of its casserole dish. “Sherlock doesn’t quiz you about whoever _you’re_ dating from month to month!” 

His sister isn’t backing down. “Yeah, but he also never dates,” she says pointedly. “It’s therefore an interesting turn of events. Especially given – some things.” 

John gives her a hard stare, silently ordering her not to even _dare_ give voice to whatever those might be. He inhales, trying to decide what to say to her, but Sherlock smoothly undercuts him. 

“It’s Corey Graham,” he says simply. “Satisfied?” 

Harry’s jaw drops. “Corey _Graham_?!” She gapes at him. “Are you _kidding_ me??”

Sherlock glances at John, then eats another bite of asparagus. “Nope.” 

“Seriously, Harry, leave it – ” John warns, but his sister ignores him. 

“How the hell did you even meet him?” she demands. 

“Harriet. Language,” Mum says sternly, nodding toward Rosie. 

“Don’t ‘Harriet’ me,” Harry says, scowling at her. “Answer the question, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock sighs minutely, but explains with admirable patience. “His PA contacted us with a request to solve a case – the details of which we are absolutely not disclosing, so don’t even think about it. They had us over for a drink – Corey and his assistant – once it was solved, and at the end of it, he asked for my number. Short and simple.” 

Mum looks across at John. “Is he the one who was in _Miracle Man_? There are so many superhero films out these days, I get them mixed up…” 

John nods. “No, you’ve got it right. That’s him.” 

Harry interrupts. “He’s supposed to be dating one of those little heiress harlots. Gaia Dawson-Smythe. It’s all over the tabloids.” 

John looks at Sherlock, warily ready to spring to his defense if needed, but he’s curious to see how Sherlock will react to this. 

To his surprise, Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please. That’s a deliberate diversion.” When Harry frowns, not comprehending, he clarifies. “A publicity stunt. Specifically because he and I were photographed leaving a restaurant. It’s a false trail, meant to put the paparazzi off the scent.” 

Somehow John feels both better and worse about this, simultaneously. Better because at least Corey isn’t slutting around behind Sherlock’s back, but worse because it means that he _is_ dating Sherlock and Sherlock alone. 

Mum nods, and fingers the collar of her blouse. “Is it serious?” she asks quietly, to Sherlock, somehow managing to ask John’s unspoken question. 

Sherlock purses his lips. “Not terribly,” he says, shrugging again. “He lives in Los Angeles. I don’t see him relocating to London anytime soon.” 

Mum and Harry exchange a look, then they both look at John. “Okay,” Harry says dubiously. It’s clear that she’s got more to say on the subject, but Sherlock cuts in before she can. 

“Now, if we’ve _quite_ finished with that, Mrs Hudson, you could do with some more chicken. Pass her the platter, John.” 

John looks at Sherlock. Their eyes meet for a moment, and it’s a bit charged. He nods and swallows, his hands already reaching for the serving platter. “Help yourself,” he tells Mrs Hudson, passing it in front of Rosie. 

Her eyes meet his, expressing all of the same doubts and worries on his behalf that his mother and sister are, and suddenly John realises that all three of them are trying very hard to tamp down their overt pity for him and not be angry with Sherlock because of it. The realisation makes his stomach twist in multiple directions. Time for a new subject, definitely. To his relief, Mrs Hudson provides this. “Rosie, would you like some more chicken?” she asks her goddaughter. 

“No!” Rosie declares, and they all burst into laughter. 

Mum raises the subject of the newest political scandal, and everyone seizes upon the topic with enthusiasm, Mrs Hudson and Harry going at it hammer and tongs, agreeing with one another, and Mum occasionally chipping in. John notices that both he and Sherlock are a bit subdued, but the tension fades as dinner goes on. By the time they’re serving the chocolate banana cream pie Sherlock concocted that afternoon, everything feels all right again. 

*** 

Later that evening, after the dishes have been finished and everyone has gone home, Sherlock comes back into the kitchen where John is just wiping down the table. He stops in the doorway, watching him for a moment. “John.” 

John looks up at him, something in the pit of his belly stirring at the particular tone of Sherlock’s voice. “Yeah?” 

Sherlock has changed for bed, wearing pyjama pants and his burgundy dressing gown, his long feet bare. His hands are in the pockets of the dressing gown, his shoulders curved forward a little. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then says, “I wondered if I could ask you something.” 

The stirring turns into a fluttering. “What’s that?” John asks, trying to keep his voice steady. It doesn’t quite work. He suspects he can guess the general nature of what Sherlock might want to ask, but then again, it could be deeper waters than another coaching. He might want to actually talk about the dynamics behind this, about the two of them. He consciously forces himself not to nervously open and close his left hand, which would be a dead giveaway. 

Sherlock’s lips tighten a little, and for a moment he just looks at John, his eyes steady and very blue. “As I told you yesterday, my last date with Corey was – somewhat compromised by the state of my digestive system, so it was – limited. In addition, I know that he wonders whether I like his suggestions, generally. He also said something about feeling that he could only get so close to me before he hit a wall. I didn’t know what to say to that, other than to say that I do like spending time with him. Which I do. It seems that the overall message is that he perceives an imbalance in our respective levels of enthusiasm about this, or doubts mine. I thought that perhaps I should be the one to suggest our next date, and as well, I rather wanted to make it up to him about last time.”

John gets this. “Right, okay,” he says. It’s not about the two of them, then. He doesn’t know whether he should feel relieved or disappointed. He’d thought that maybe having had all of them together tonight might underscore what a family unit they already are. How there’s no place, either literally or metaphorically, for Corey Graham in amongst them all, that his presence would be – is – an imposition. Apparently not. He squares his shoulders and tosses the cloth he was wiping the table with over to the sink, putting his hands on his hips. “So what are you planning to suggest? Something that you actually like doing? I mean… you don’t want to take him on a tour of murders we’ve solved or something, do you?” 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “No,” he says. “I thought that perhaps I would suggest something like a museum. And then after…” He clears his throat, then goes on, his voice quieter. “I thought perhaps it was time to… suggest having – sex. The – real sort.”

John immediately thinks that he could point out that everything else that Sherlock and Corey have done so far constitutes ‘real’ sex, but that’s rather beside the point, and besides, his mouth has gone dry at the very notion, jealousy rising into his mouth like poison gas. He makes himself nod. (He knew this was coming. It’s not like it’s that much worse than anything else Sherlock has already done with Corey.) “So where do I come in?” he asks, his voice barely even sounding like his own. 

Sherlock’s lips purse and an excruciatingly eloquent pause forms between them. His request becomes instantly clear. “I don’t want it to be my first time, with him,” he says, his voice barely audible. “Please, John. It’s the last time I’ll ask. I promise. After this, I’ll – I’ll just sort it out on my own.” 

Somehow this hurts, too. There are thousands of things John could say. Part of him wants to object immediately, say _Look, Sherlock, those other ‘coachings’ were one thing, but I cannot just fuck you. That’s crossing a line._ Or _How much longer do you think I can actually do this and keep my feelings out of it? I’m not a goddamned machine!_ Or even _I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I can’t. That’s just asking too much._ But here and now, in the yellow-ish light of the kitchen lamp, his lips slightly parted, his eyes rooted to Sherlock’s, John finds himself incapable of denying him. Sherlock has put himself here in front of him, and made the most intimate and personal of requests, bared himself to utter vulnerability, said that he feels too self-conscious about his inexperience to do this with Corey for the first time. He trusts John more than anyone else in the world, and he’s asking something he would never let himself ask anyone else, and if John were to say no to him now, the resulting damage – to both of them individually as well as to their friendship – could be colossal. John swallows and puts aside all of his unspoken objections regarding his own feelings about this entire thing once and for all, and nods. “Okay,” he says, his voice coming out in a whisper. He clears his throat, and Sherlock exhales in clear relief, his shoulders lowering by half an inch. 

He doesn’t say anything, though, the air between them too charged. Instead, he looks questioningly down the corridor toward his bedroom, then back at John, and John nods again, and follows him out of the kitchen. 

Inside the bedroom, John carefully shuts the door behind him, creating a safe cocoon within the house. He should talk them through this, as with each previous time, but he finds himself completely unable to. He turns away from the door to face Sherlock, whose fingers are moving uncertainly in the folds of his dressing gown, almost hidden, but betraying him nonetheless. John moves closer to him and gently unties the sash of Sherlock’s dressing gown. Sherlock doesn’t resist, his face angled down toward John’s, breathing audibly through his nose. John opens the dressing gown and pushes it down Sherlock’s arms, leaving Sherlock naked from the waist up, his pulse thudding visibly and tangibly through his chest. John looks down at the mark of Mary’s bullet just off the centre of Sherlock’s torso and swallows hard. He shouldn’t kiss Sherlock. He’s painfully aware of this. But Sherlock is palpably nervous, his eyes fixated on John’s almost like a deer in the headlights. John wants to help him relax, make him feel comfortable. He puts his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and strokes them down his upper arms, like chiseled marble, and steps closer into his space. He looks up at Sherlock, their mouths already only inches apart, and Sherlock is the first to make a move, kissing him for the first time since the night he spent in John’s bed upstairs. The kiss begins slowly, almost tentatively, John’s hands still stroking over Sherlock’s arms and then his sides and back with as much reassurance as he can contrive, his lips and tongue steady against Sherlock’s, trying to ground this is the solidity of their years of friendship. 

Sherlock falls into it with something that feels like almost gratitude, gratitude for the safe harbour of John’s acceptance of doing this in the first place, to show him the way forward so that he can do it with Corey with the confidence and assurance of prior experience. By now, John’s mouth must feel like comfort, like familiarity, rather than anything specifically sexual. He gets that from Corey, John reminds himself: the attraction. He’s admitted it, that he’s attracted to Corey. It’s the entire reason he wanted to be shown how to navigate a date with him in the first place. He wants that: not John. But John is trustworthy, safe, dependable. Knowledgeable. Sherlock’s arms are around his shoulders, their bodies close together now. 

John lets his hands travel down to include Sherlock’s arse, squeezing it gently, and Sherlock makes an unintelligible sound into his mouth, pressing closer still. His pyjama pants are far more revealing than John’s jeans, and John can feel that he’s already aroused. He is, too, but it takes very little for him when it’s Sherlock he’s kissing. Sherlock’s fingers dig into the material of his jumper, then lift it, hauling it over his head. John allows it, then unbuttons his jeans himself and steps out of them, pulling Sherlock’s hips flush against his in his underwear. 

Sherlock groans raggedly, his hands unabashedly gripping John’s arse now, and he breaks off the kiss, breathing hard. “Okay,” he says, his voice all breath. “I’m – I think I’m ready – ”

John is having a hard time stifling his own level of arousal. He searches Sherlock’s eyes. “Yeah?” he asks. When Sherlock nods, teeth digging into his lower lip, John agrees. “Okay,” he says. In tacit understanding, they move to the bed. Sherlock hesitates, then removes his pyjama pants, leaving himself fully naked in the light for the first time. He’s hard, his erection pointing stiffly upward, his pulse is hammering through his pale skin now. Sherlock looks as vulnerable as if he just removed his entire skin along with his clothes, his hands moving nervously, so John hastily strips off his underwear to make things feel more even. “Get the lamp,” he says, his voice softer than he meant for it to come out, and very consciously aware of his own cock, pointing straight out from his body, released from the confines of his clothes. “I’ll just – deal with the light.” 

Sherlock nods and silently bends to switch on the lamp. 

John moves hastily to the door and turns off the overhead light, leaving them in the golden glow from the bedside lamp. Sherlock turns back the covers and gets into the bed, lying down on his back. His cock is jutting up from his body, flushed darker than the rest of his skin. John allows himself all of three seconds to drink in the sight of him, then moves around to the other side of the bed and gets in. Sherlock immediately turns to face him, pressing his lube into John’s hand. His face conveys everything John needs to know: he’s determined to do this. John studies his eyes and doesn’t question it. He accepts the lube. “Turn around,” he says, his voice still soft. 

Sherlock swallows, then does it. There’s a pause, a hesitation that John can feel viscerally. “Will it hurt?” Sherlock asks quietly, his voice barely audible. 

John’s heart immediately shatters for him. He scoots up close behind Sherlock and lets himself do something he never imagined he’d ever allow himself to do, hugging Sherlock close, every part of his body pressing into Sherlock’s. “Not if I’ve got anything to say about it,” he says roughly, and kisses the back of Sherlock’s left shoulder. “I want you to enjoy it, not just – bear it. It’s supposed to be good for you, too, you know.” 

Sherlock takes a deep, not quite steady breath, his pulse thudding through his skin. “Okay,” he says, very uncertainly. 

“We’ll take it slowly,” John promises, his eyes closed as he presses small kisses into Sherlock’s skin. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

There’s a tiny pause, then Sherlock says, “I know you don’t.” 

John closes his eyes for a moment, then makes himself get back to it. His cock is hard as rock, pressing into the place where Sherlock’s body divides, seeking the heat of him. He pulls himself back a little and gets his fingers lubed up. “Tell me if it’s uncomfortable,” he says, keeping his voice as steady and gentle as he knows how. It’s almost shocking to hear how tender he actually sounds once the words are out of his mouth. 

“I will,” Sherlock says, and John spontaneously presses his lips into Sherlock’s shoulder one more time. 

“Good,” he says, his voice coming out the same way, and he begins by reaching around to give Sherlock’s cock several long, firm, smooth strokes. He rubs Sherlock’s chest and belly, his fingers finding the pebbled nubs of Sherlock’s nipples, peaked with arousal, then goes back to his erection, tugging gently at his balls and then squeezing his arse. When he lets his fingers slip deeper, pressing into Sherlock’s hole, there’s no resistance, no stiffening, which is definitely a sign that he’s very aroused. John takes his time, massaging until it feels right to go inside, stretching Sherlock methodically and allowing himself to secretly love doing this for him. The only other time he fingered Sherlock, Sherlock liked it so much that he came, and John wants it to feel that good again this time. Only this time it will go even deeper. John will be all the way inside him. And he wants that so badly that he can taste it, his entire body on fire with desire for Sherlock, desire to be joined to him like that, to feel the moment when Sherlock comes while he’s inside him, feel Sherlock’s body clenching around his cock and shuddering against John’s stomach and chest. He’s two fingers deep now and breathing hard, unable to hide the fact, and Sherlock is, too. John works a third finger in, wanting Sherlock to be good and stretched before asking his body to accept the invasion of John’s cock, which is even thicker. 

He goes deeper, pressing just a little into the nub of Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock gasps. “John – !” 

John is already there, nodding, though Sherlock can’t see it. “We need a – have you got – ”

“Here,” Sherlock interrupts, reaching back to him. 

John finds a condom in his hand, still wrapped, and looks down at it. It’s his size, the same brand as he keeps in his bedroom. It probably is one of his, he realises, and his mouth goes dry at knowing that Sherlock has definitely been planning this. He tears the package with his teeth and rolls the condom onto himself, then gets a generous amount of lube slicked over himself. “Okay,” he says, his voice gone rough. He smooths a hand down Sherlock’s side, the touch probably more tender than he should be giving, but he can’t help it at this point. It’s the last time anything like this is going to happen and he’s feeling it poignantly. He squeezes Sherlock’s left cheek and pulls it away slightly, rubbing his cock into him, then fitting it into position with his fingers. “Breathe,” he says, his entire chest aching with tenderness for Sherlock. 

Sherlock is trembling, but he takes a deep, shuddering breath, and John presses his hips forward and enters him. 

The earth practically stops turning, or so it feels. Sherlock’s body is molten hot on the inside, and John makes himself go slowly, in tiny increments, waiting at each stage for Sherlock’s body to relax and allow him inside. It feels beyond merely _good_ : it feels life-defining. This is more than sex and John has utterly lost the battle over his feelings for Sherlock. When he’s finally all the way inside, sunk root-deep into Sherlock, he wraps his arm around Sherlock’s chest and holds him tightly, loving him fiercely, his eyes squeezed shut as Sherlock’s body shudders around him, his muscles vacillating in their indecision over whether or not to stop spasming and allow this. They do, gradually, Sherlock inhaling in short sucks of air. Neither of them speak, communicating only in wordless sounds and breath. John strokes Sherlock’s chest almost reverently, then reaches down to touch his cock again. It moves responsively in his palm, coming to full hardness again, and John rubs his balls and touches the liquid seeping from the slit of his cock. When the time feels right, he begins to move, just a little at a time, half an inch or so, out and then back in. Then further out, further back. Every single return feels like coming home, and John is drowning in it, drowning in this intimate communion of bodies, a more powerful connection than he’s ever felt with another person before. He shifts a little and thrusts a little deeper and he feels Sherlock’s gasp before he even hears it, as well as his cock twitching hard in John’s hand. John makes love to him with gentle, mounting, deeper thrusts, his body needing, _needing_ , but there’s no hurrying this. It may well be the most important moment of his life, and it’s stopped mattering that it’s ultimately about Corey Graham. It doesn’t matter one damned bit: all that matters is this moment, and the two of them in it. John’s body is curved around Sherlock’s from behind, his arm pinning Sherlock to him, cock buried as deeply within him as it can go, hand stroking rhythmically along his erection, and they’re panting in tandem, their breathing synched perfectly. John is moving faster, a rising crescendo of need and pleasure building between them. Sherlock is gasping and suddenly his hand is there, closing desperately around John’s flying fist, squeezing hard, and then his back arches and he comes, his body spasming three times, _hard_. John stops breathing and surrenders to it, utterly beyond his own control to hold it back any longer. Sherlock’s cock is still spurting over his fist as John closes his eyes and feels himself pumping out gush after gush of hot release into the condom, buried to the root in Sherlock’s body, his own frame gripped in the unstoppable tidal wave of his orgasm. 

When it subsides, he finds himself clutching Sherlock against his chest, both their bodies heaving and spent, John’s hand wet with Sherlock’s release. It’s by far the most intense sex he’s ever experienced with anyone, and John knows that there is no saving him now. He’s in love with Sherlock, has been since the day they met, and there can be no denying it on any level now. He wants to say it, say it verbally – because everything that just happened was already him saying it with his hands and body. He drags in a lungful of breath. “You okay?” he asks, his voice shot through with breath, his heart still pounding. 

But Sherlock doesn’t answer. His breathing is erratic. More so, John realises with some dismay, than just panting from what was rather spectacular sex. He’s just about to open his mouth and ask, but Sherlock finally speaks. “John…” He swallows audibly. “I – think I need you to leave.” 

(What?) Shock hits like a cold wave. “Are – you okay?” John repeats, his gut tightening. “Did I – are you – ” He wants to ask if he’s hurt Sherlock, but can’t quite make the words come out his mouth. 

Sherlock doesn’t respond to this. “Please,” he says, his back still to John, his shoulders slumped forward. 

The cold feeling spreads through his veins like ice, numbness settling in his fingers. “Okay,” John says, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. He holds onto the condom and pulls carefully out of Sherlock. He gets out of the bed clumsily, still dazed from the strength of the orgasm and the shock of Sherlock’s reaction, and goes around it to collect his clothing. He feels oddly detached, as though this is happening to someone else, but the thundering of his heartbeat is definitely his own. He stops at the doorway and looks back at Sherlock. Sherlock hasn’t moved, still curled on his side. His eyes are tightly shut, his face partly hidden from this angle. John opens his mouth, aching to say something, to ask, but Sherlock has asked him to leave. He needs to go. 

John pulls the bedroom door open and closes it quietly behind him. On the opposite side, he stands where he is in the corridor, his bunched up clothing in one hand and the sodden, filled condom in the other. What the hell just happened? He feels sick and cold. He moves quietly down the corridor, hating every inch of space that’s separating them, separating him from the person who matters most in the universe to him, that he wishes he could wrap himself around from head to toe and try his damnedest to put his feelings into words and make himself say them at last. But he can’t. He disposes of the condom in the kitchen, washing his hands and body with as little noise as he can, then drinks half a glass of water. Nothing makes any sense. Sherlock seemed to like it – physically, he certainly did. What happened between that and the end? Where did John misstep? His mind is blank, his brain buzzing like static over a dead radio station. His entire body feels numb, his mind veering away from the incredible amount of hurt that’s blooming in his chest like a bruise, spreading into his tissues and spine. 

Somehow, he gets himself upstairs and crawls into his own bed, lying awake in agony until sleep finally, mercifully, washes over him and takes him away. 

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 

When John wakes the next morning, he feels momentarily disoriented. He’s in his own bed, but there’s something hanging over him, something that’s waiting to crash down. Then he remembers: last night. Sherlock’s rejection, wanting him to leave the room after what felt like life-altering sex. The hurt and confusion swamp John, making his chest and gut stab into him so sharply that he turns onto his side, gasping for breath. He reaches for his phone. What time is it? It’s Friday morning, nearly eleven. He checks his messages, but there’s nothing interesting. The only person he really wants any communication from is Sherlock, and given that they share a flat, he probably wouldn’t text John. 

He lies on his side in parallel to the position he left Sherlock in last night, staring at the wall opposite. Should he go downstairs? He’d rather like to shower, but he’s also dreading seeing Sherlock. Though not seeing him would be even worse. (Would it?) John debates internally, and can’t decide. What if Sherlock just pretends that nothing ever happened? He’d have to bring it up, John decides. Ask what went wrong. What if everything is hopelessly destroyed between them, though? This entire ‘coaching’ business was always a dangerous idea. John knows that. He did it for Sherlock, though, because he asked. Because Sherlock matters to him more than anything, and if that was what it was going to take to allow Sherlock to try something he wanted but was afraid to try, then John couldn’t just say no to him. But it may have cost him everything. 

John sits up, his entire being aching over this. Time to go down and see what’s what, at any rate. He pulls his dressing gown on over his shorts and t-shirt and goes cautiously downstairs. Sherlock isn’t in the sitting room or kitchen or loo, though both doors to his bedroom are closed. John listens quietly from within the loo, but can’t hear anything from the other side of the door. Is Sherlock in there? If so, what is he thinking? Feeling? John hesitates, wanting to knock, but some instinct tells him not to. If Sherlock has sealed himself within, then perhaps he needs to be left alone. John turns on the shower, uses the toilet, and tells himself that if he is there, Sherlock will at least know that he’s up and around if he wants or needs to see him. John steps into the shower and takes a long, hot one, and somehow it does help a bit, though understanding would help far more. He takes his time about brushing his teeth and shaving after, puts his underwear and dressing gown back on, leaves his t-shirt in the laundry hamper, and finally makes himself leave the loo. 

The flat still appears to be deserted. John glances down the corridor at forbidding-looking closed door of Sherlock’s bedroom, then quietly checks behind the door to the flat for Sherlock’s coat. It’s gone, and so are his shoes. The knowledge hits John like a fist to the gut, disappointment breaking over him like a wave. So Sherlock has left, without a word. Without a message to say where he’s gone, when he’ll be back, any of it. John checks the kitchen table, just to be sure, but there’s nothing, not even a mug from a cup of tea Sherlock might have drunk before he left, no plate of toast crumbs to leave a clue that he was ever there at all. 

Heavy-hearted, John turns and goes upstairs. Was it that he showed his feelings too much, he wonders, numbly pulling on his jeans with clumsy fingers. He knows that he didn’t hide it, barely even tried. All he wanted was to make Sherlock feel good, feel safe in knowing that John cares enough for him to never hurt him if he possibly can. Those days are behind them for good. That he was willing to do even _that_ at Sherlock’s request, to let him have this thing that it seems he wants. But he kissed Sherlock again. Sherlock started it, but it’s not as though John resisted. He remembers the kisses he pressed into Sherlock’s pale shoulder and the way he was touching him and cringes. Every touch, every movement of his body against and within Sherlock’s, spoke of his feelings. Of the fact that he loves Sherlock and would do anything for him – enough even to show him how to do that, have another person inside him, so that he could do it with Corey Graham instead of with him. His secret is definitely out, and Sherlock has taken it badly. 

“Shit,” John says aloud, to the empty room around him. “ _Shit_.” 

He goes back downstairs. Time crawls along. He listlessly makes himself something to eat – a toasted sandwich with leftover chicken, and a heap of their cauliflower mac and cheese. It’s good but he barely tastes it, washing it down with a cup of tea whose primary redeeming quality is that it’s hot. He checks his email and social media again, but there’s no trace of Sherlock anywhere. He doesn’t want to go out in case Sherlock comes home in the meantime. Although, John realises, it’s Friday: maybe Sherlock did set up that date with Corey and that’s where he is. Maybe he wanted to see Corey as quickly as possible, get the memory of John’s touch and the taste of his lips out of his skin, replace it with Corey’s. John feels ill – sick to the stomach and furious with jealousy of Corey Graham, who has taken this from him. Who’s managed to hook Sherlock’s interest in the first place, in a way that John has singularly failed to do in the past seven years that they’ve known one another, shared a home, built a life together, stitching it back together after so many things left it in rags – Sherlock’s two-year disappearance thanks to Moriarty, his marriage to Mary – well, everything about Mary, really – Eurus. They salvaged it, though, and got to be closer than ever, close enough for Sherlock to have asked for John’s help with this in the first place. But it was never going to be him in the end. 

John launches himself out of his chair and paces. He’s got to do something or he’s going to go insane. He cleans up from his lunch, then decides to take out the bins. He could look in on Mrs Hudson, but he can’t stomach the thought of her cheeriness, not when he’s sick with cold dread over the state of things between him and Sherlock. He can’t tell her about any of that – she would never understand. There’s no one who would – after all, it’s a rather unique situation, he knows. He thinks of trying to explain it to her. _We’ve been having sex, Sherlock and me, but don’t worry – it’s all above board! I’m just helping him learn how to do sex so that he can do it with his celebrity boyfriend. He asked me to. I’m just trying to be a good friend here._ Maybe not. He deals with the rubbish, then goes back upstairs, leaving the door to the stairwell open, so that he’ll hear it the instant Sherlock comes home – _if_ he comes home. He may be off touring the British Museum or the Tate Gallery or some inane thing with Corey even now, with plans to introduce him to the Chinese on the corner, or their favourite sushi restaurant, or the Thai place round the corner with the amazing massaman curry and coconut rice. And then it would be back to Corey’s posh Covent Garden condo, expensive wine and smooth jazz playing as Corey strips Sherlock bare with his handsome, sculpted hands, Sherlock relaxed and confident in his newfound experience as they make their way into the bedroom. And then Corey would enter him, join himself to Sherlock in the way that Sherlock practised last night. That’s all it was: a dry run for the real thing. 

John bends forward in his chair and digs his fingers into his temples, feeling so nauseated that he can hardly breathe. He did every part of it to enable Sherlock to have this very thing, yet now that it’s happening – which it has been for weeks now, only he couldn’t even make himself face it fully – he can’t bear it at all. He loves Sherlock fiercely and wants so badly to be allowed to lay claim to him for himself, but that’s not in the cards. 

His phone buzzes with a text, startling him. John grabs for it, his heart in his throat, but it’s only Greg. He’s texted both of them the details of a homicide, wondering if they’re free. John sees that Sherlock has read it, but he doesn’t respond. There’s no ellipsis of him typing. John waits several minutes, staring at the screen, but Sherlock doesn’t answer. Perhaps he’s busy, John thinks bitterly. He doesn’t respond, either, feeling badly for Greg, who will see that they’ve both seen it, but he doesn’t know what to say. He leaves the phone on the table beside his chair and goes to make another cup of tea. 

He’s drinking it at the kitchen table when his phone rings, so he bolts over to get it. It’s Greg again. John’s heart sinks but he answers. “Hey,” he says, already feeling awkward about not having answered Greg’s text. 

“Hi,” Greg says. “What’s going on? Is something wrong?” 

So very much, John thinks, but doesn’t say. He clears his throat. “Why should anything be wrong?” 

“Well, I texted you both, but no one answered me,” Greg says practically. “So then I phoned Sherlock, because we could really do with your help on this one. First he didn’t answer at all, so then I called again and he picked up the second time and just said that you weren’t available.” 

“That _I’m_ not?” John asks, feeling indignant and wondering if Sherlock went to the crime scene without him. His stomach curls into an even tighter knot at this. 

But Greg contradicts him. “No, both of you. He just said, ‘We’re not available. Sorry.’ And then he hung up on me. So I didn’t know what to think. Thought I should check, though I’ve got my hands a bit full as it is, here…”

John sighs. “Look, I’m sorry, Greg. I don’t know what to tell you. The fact is that things aren’t okay, but I don’t even know why or how. Sherlock’s not here and I don’t know where he is. I think you’re on your own for this one. I’m sorry.” 

Greg pauses. “Okay,” he says. “Sorry, mate. That sounds rough. Hope things clear up.” 

“Thanks,” John says woodenly, and ends the call, sitting in silence for a long time afterward. So Sherlock isn’t taking the case, either. That means he’s either busy, or… what? (Where is he?) John wishes rather desperately that he knew. He didn’t say that he, himself, was busy or unavailable, but that they both were. _Is_ he with Corey? John can’t stop obsessing about it, every nerve ending on fire with jealousy with the thought of every place that Corey’s fingers – and God knows what else – might be touching Sherlock at this very moment. 

Another hour or so passes, John stalking restlessly around the flat, feeling stuck there because he doesn’t want to leave and miss Sherlock coming home. He’s watching an inane game show out of sheer desperation for distraction when he hears the door downstairs. His pulse immediately doubles. He switches off the television and gets to his feet. His legs are actually shaking, but he can’t do this sitting down. He’s on his feet in the middle of the sitting room when Sherlock reaches the top of the stairs. 

He walks through the door and stops, seeing John there. Their eyes lock and hold for a long moment. John can’t speak and doesn’t try. Everything is right there, all over his face and plain enough to read. Sherlock’s eyes travel over his face and take all of it in. “I’m glad you’re home,” he says, breaking the silence. His voice is quiet but very intense. “We should talk.” 

John tries to swallow but can’t; somehow his throat seems to have grown to the size of a grapefruit. “I – yeah. We should,” he agrees, his voice rasping. 

Sherlock registers this, too. “I should start by apologising,” he says. His face is sober, his eyes too compassionate. “I – should never have asked you to… help me with this. To coach me. It didn’t occur to me at the time – well, when I first asked, I never thought it would go beyond that first instance. Either with you or with Corey. I didn’t foresee the escalation, on either side. It’s occurred to me now that my continued requests, from the very start, put you into an incredibly difficult position. For what it’s worth, I am… beyond grateful that you would do that much for me. To – to enable me to have what you thought I wanted. You’re – an incredible friend, John. Better than I deserve. Far better.” 

John swallows, his heart still racing. He hears a _but_ coming. “I was only trying to – to help you have that,” he gets out, his mouth still dry.. 

Sherlock nods. “I know that. I knew it even at the beginning. I just didn’t realise how much it was going to… cost you.”

John wants to close his eyes and disappear. He looks down at the carpet and puts his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep from flexing and clenching them. He doesn’t know how to answer this. 

“I wish you had told me from the start how you felt,” Sherlock says, his voice low. 

John can only shake his head. “I couldn’t.” The words feel dead on his tongue. 

“Why not?” Sherlock’s voice is steady, too steady. 

John shrugs helplessly. “What difference would it have made? It was him you wanted.” He feels like an idiot, exposed and unworthy. 

Sherlock hesitates. “No, it wasn’t,” he says, very quietly. 

John thinks he must have misheard and looks up. “What?” He can feel his face condensing in confusion. “Yes, it was – you said you were attracted to him. You said that you would want to go for that first drink if you felt like you knew how to handle it. I mean – ” He stops, not sure how to go on. 

Sherlock’s lips press together. “I know I said all that,” he admits. “And – it wasn’t untrue. I mean – Corey is – well, a major celebrity, obviously. Attractive, wealthy, and as you’ve seen, also very kind. He’s a genuinely nice human being. I was – flattered. But if I’d had any indication of how you felt, at least based on what you’ve just said now, and your behaviour last night – ”

It’s his turn to stop, and John doesn’t know whether he wants to demand that Sherlock finish the sentence, or apologise for last night. His face is flushing, though, so he starts with the second one. “Look, about that – I’m sorry,” he says wretchedly. “I don’t know why I didn’t – I don’t know, make it more like the other coachings.” He shrugs, feeling more idiotic than ever. “I guess it was because it was just – too much for me to keep pretending.” 

“It was too much for me to keep pretending, too,” Sherlock says quietly. 

John feels his jaw drop. What does this mean? Is Sherlock saying that he’s been pretending all along – with Corey? Has this entire thing been a hoax? Sherlock wouldn’t do that to him, would he? “Sherlock,” he says, very unsteadily, “I’m – I’m going to need you to clarify a whole lot more…” 

Sherlock nods. “I know,” he says. “I – I’m trying to.” He turns and closes the flat door behind himself, then takes off his coat and hangs it up, steps out of his shoes. John watches him numbly, and has the wit to realises that Sherlock is stalling for time, trying to find the right words. He turns back to face John, and his face is set. “Look,” he says, very intensely. “It’s been you all along. It always has been. Since long before I went away. From the very start. It took me a long time to see it for what it was, but – when I came back, Mary was there, and I thought that was what you wanted, so I never said anything. Never would have. When it all ended and you came back, I was only grateful that you’d come home. I didn’t want to destabilise it, jeopardise everything with a poorly-thought out request to have even more from you. So when this came along… I never would have gone for it. It was flattering, obviously, but I wouldn’t have even answered that first text of his. But you kept asking about it, and when you encouraged me to try it, I really thought that you must not have any feelings of – of that nature for me. And when I presented you with my practical issue, of not wanting to look like an inexperienced fool in front of someone like him and you agreed to walk me through it, that seemed very much like a confirmation of the fact.” 

John shakes his head. “I just – I wanted you to be able to try it, at the very least, if it was what you wanted,” he says. “I had no idea that you felt anything like that for me.” 

“I’ve worked rather hard to disguise it,” Sherlock says frankly. “I thought the information would be wholly unwelcome to you. Either way, you and I both thought that it would just be a drink. It’s not – it’s not what you’re thinking. It wasn’t a trick. I didn’t go for that drink to make you jealous, or ask you to coach me as a sneaky way to get you to kiss me. I went because there didn’t seem to be any reason not to, given that I thought you didn’t want anything from me beyond friendship. I actually thought that it might even be a relief for you if I dated someone else, in the event that you suspected that I felt the way I did – do – for you. You seemed so keen for me to try it that you were even willing to teach me what I needed to know for it to work. I had no idea that it would progress, that Corey would stick around. There didn’t seem to be any reason not to keep going with it, either, since it seemed to be functioning, and that was largely due to you continuing to guide me through it.”

He stops to catch his breath, and John blinks, trying to take this all on board. “Oh, God,” he says. “I am such an idiot. I just – I was trying so hard to keep my feelings to myself, too – to put them aside and be a good friend to you. I’m rather horribly aware that I haven’t been one in the last few years and I just – I wanted you to have what I thought you wanted.”

Sherlock’s lips twist. “I can see that now. I suppose it’s the same error I made with you and Mary.” 

“That’s why you shot Magnussen,” John says, realising for the first time, and Sherlock nods, but doesn’t go into it, clearly wanting to focus on the matter at hand. 

“I always felt the pull, the conflict,” he says. “Every time I wasn’t here, where I belong. With you. And it was beginning to present itself as a problem in other ways beyond my own, private issue, obviously – cropping up during cases and otherwise interrupting the rest of our life together, regardless of our own, private dynamics. I’m also very much aware that your family and probably Mrs Hudson all view me as an utter traitor at present as well – and for good reason. _I_ felt it, too, that I was the one pulling at the very fabric of our life by doing this other thing. And another thing: it was always better with you, you know.” 

John blinks several times. “What was?” 

“ _All_ of it,” Sherlock says. “From the very first time you kissed me. I couldn’t help but compare everything I did with Corey unfavourably to how it had been with you, and it wasn’t only because it happened with you first. It was – leagues away. Not that it was… bad, with him. Not at all. But even if I hadn’t felt what I feel for you – and I’m aware that that could have coloured my impressions of it – on a strictly physical note, it was always better with you.”

John feels rather astounded by this. “That’s going to do wonders for my ego,” he says unsteadily, trying for a laugh that doesn’t quite materialise. 

Sherlock hasn’t finished, though. “Even more than that… it had already got to the point wherein I couldn’t remember who I was practising for anymore. I kept telling myself that you were only doing it because I was asking – you reminded me of that more than once – and that it was so that I could have Corey, for however long that was to last. That you were doing me a kindness – and you were, but I didn’t even realise how much so. You always managed to keep things so brisk and professional – you were annoyed when I fell asleep in your bed, for instance. It was all very much in keeping with the boundaries of our friendship, even in spite of these rather unusual coachings. But then last night, it was so different.” 

“I’m sorry,” John says again, even though he’s already said it and even though it cautiously seems like they might be out of the danger zone. “I just – I wanted to make it feel – you know – safe. Comfortable. I knew it was a pretty big thing to do for the first time, and I wanted it to be a nice experience for you. I’d told myself before that I should stop kissing you, but then you kissed me first, and I ended up just… going with it. But – and I knew this going in, but still, I – doing what we did last night was too intense. I couldn’t hide it anymore.” 

“I could feel all of it,” Sherlock tells him, his voice low. “I could feel the very intent you had talked about at the beginning, and it was – overwhelming. Almost devastatingly so, because suddenly I could see it plainly, and I wanted it too much to make myself put an end to it while it was still happening. I’ve never wanted anything more in all my life than what happened last night. But then, once it was over, it was as though the facts of the matter were screaming in my face: that I could never, knowing how I feel about you, do that with anyone else. And on top of that, I could see with stark transparency the fact that I was dating one person and in love with another, and that he was in love with me, too. I saw it as clearly as clinical evidence for a case. You love me. You _must_.” 

John can’t deny this and doesn’t try. He nods, barely trusting himself to speak. “I do. Yeah.” 

“We have a life together, you and I,” Sherlock says intensely. “We have – family. Work. A home. Our own, private rituals. You _are_ my life, and there’s no room in it for anyone else. You’re all I want – all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“Oh, Jesus,” John says, his throat closing. “I’m going to go to bloody pieces here.” 

Sherlock smiles for the first time since he got home, and the amount of tenderness in it nearly shatters John’s heart. He crosses the space between them and puts his large, delicate hands on John’s face, cradling it in his long fingers. “Don’t cry,” he says gently. “Everything’s going to be all right now.” He bends slowly and kisses John with every ounce of intention that he’s kept hidden away before this point, communicating it in full, and John is helpless to do anything other than throw himself headlong into it and kiss Sherlock fiercely, his arms coming around Sherlock’s long back. After a bit, Sherlock puts his around John’s shoulders and they stand there in the sitting room and kiss and kiss and kiss, mouths parting, breath and tongues in each other’s mouths, and John still isn’t sure that he’s not going to fall apart completely. 

When they finally part ages later, his eyes are definitely wet and he blinks through it sheepishly at Sherlock. “Sorry,” he says again. “It’s just – God, it’s been hard, lately.” 

“I know. At least, I do now.” Sherlock is contrite, his voice still gentle. He touches John’s eyes with infinite amounts of tenderness, catching the tears on his thumbs and wiping them away. “I’m sorry, John. So sorry. I wish I had known. I do see why you couldn’t tell me, though.” 

John searches his eyes, his arms still locked around Sherlock’s back. “I did it because you asked me to. And because I was the one who kept nagging you to try it – all because I thought that if you _were_ interested in having that, then you should have it. And then I couldn’t very well say no to your request to teach you, given that I was the one who pushed you into the whole thing in the first place. It rather backfired on me, though. If I had just told you that night that I honestly didn’t want you to go for that drink because of the way I feel about you, would that have changed things?”

“Of course,” Sherlock tells him, sliding the fingers of his right hand into John’s hair and stroking. “I never would have gone for that first drink. It’s over, by the way. With Corey. I was such a mess last night that I couldn’t even begin to sort it all out, but when I woke up, that one thing was very clear: I knew that, regardless of what you might say, whether or not you might be willing to give this a shot, I had to end it with Corey. It wasn’t fair to any of us, honestly. And he knew, you know.” 

John reaches up to cup Sherlock’s face with his hand, loving him so much that it hurts. “What did he know?” 

Sherlock turns his face to press a kiss to John’s palm. “He knew it was you. That you had a place in my life that he could never compete with. That he would only ever be able to get so far with me. I didn’t mean for him to get hurt, either, and I think he did. He was very gracious about it, though. I think he understands.” 

John strokes his thumb over the sharp line of Sherlock’s cheekbone. “I actually spent some time wondering which of us was getting the worse deal,” he admits. He hesitates, but he’s got to ask. “Does he know about the coachings?” 

Sherlock nods, wincing a little. “He does now. I thought it only fair to tell him. To explain why it had to end. He behaved very well, I have to say. Better than I probably deserve, again. I felt rather terrible afterwards. When Lestrade called, I had only just left his condo and was wandering aimlessly through the streets, trying not to hate myself too much. I’m the one who’s handled all of this badly.” 

“For a long time, I thought he was two-timing you with that little starlet,” John says. “It was how I justified some of it to myself. I am sorry for Corey’s sake, but – ”

“But we always knew that it would be a necessarily temporary thing,” Sherlock points out, cutting in gently. “He could have bought a property here, but his life is in Los Angeles. More to the point, his life is something entirely apart from mine, from what you and I do. It was never going to last for very long, and he knew that.”

John nods, and decides to let go of his residual guilt on that score. “God, Sherlock – I’m so relieved, you know. I knew I had given myself away last night, and when you said I needed to leave the room, I – well, first I thought I had hurt you, either physically or – made you feel violated or something. And then it started to sink in that I’d just made it totally obvious how I feel about you, and that you were upset about it.” 

“I was, but not for the reasons you’re thinking,” Sherlock says. He smooths that same hand down over the back of John’s head, then lowers his head to kiss him again, just a brief press of his lips to John’s. 

He pulls away after, but John reaches for him again, hardly daring to believe that this is happening and hungry for more, hungry to confirm it. They kiss for several long minutes that feel better than anything John’s ever experienced before, their arms tight around one another, bodies pressed close. “I love you,” John breathes, the next time there’s a chance to, and it feels so cathartic to finally just say it. “God, I love you, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock’s eyes are still closed, his lips parted, as though he’s revelling in hearing it. “I love you, too,” he says, and then his eyes open, starry and bright. 

“Has it really always been me?” John asks, a bit wistfully. “Even after everything I put you through?” 

“John. Don’t,” Sherlock says, a line appearing between his eyebrows. “We’ve already talked about all of that. It’s ancient history at this point. There’s never been anyone else for me – least of all some movie star, no matter how attractive, nice, and all the rest of that. I liked him. But he’s not you. I haven’t got any feelings left over for anyone else. It’s always been you, from the very beginning. End of story.” 

John accepts this, the words warming him to his very core. He knows he shouldn’t ask this, but he does it anyway, feeling his mouth curl at the corner. “And it was really always better with me?” 

“Far and away,” Sherlock says, a bit ruefully. “Incomparably. I almost mentioned that once, near the start, but thought I’d better not. I thought it would – reveal my own bias. But not just the – sexual stuff. Everything. I like eating with you better. Sleeping with you. Watching movies with you. Going out with you. Everything is better with you.” 

“I did think it was somewhat telling that you were comfortable enough with me to ask in the first place,” John says honestly. “Or even just the fact that you were comfortable enough in my bed to fall asleep there, compared to you rarely sleeping well at Corey’s.” He hesitates. “I was trying so hard to keep my own motives clear about the whole thing, but – it did occur to me that if this was the only way it was ever going to happen between us, then it was better than nothing.”

Sherlock nods. “I had the same thought,” he admits. “It was a real request for instruction, though. We’re a pair of idiots. Me especially. Now, if you’d indulge me, I do have some… newfound skills that I wouldn’t mind trying out on you just now… and I’m in no way near finished kissing you with proper intent behind it, either. Now that I’m – allowed to let it through.” 

John nods, joy swelling up from his very bones. “I’m all yours,” he vows, and Sherlock smiles. John decides to add something else, just for good measure. “And – if you want that sort of thing – fancy restaurants and museums and real, proper dates – we can do that stuff, you know. Be proper boyfriends or whatever. I’ll even go to the opera with you, if you want. Anything. Anything at all.” 

Sherlock is still smiling and shakes his head. “I would rather stay at home with you than go anywhere with anyone else.” 

John hesitates. “What about the case?” he asks. “The one that Lestrade called about…”

To his astonishment, Sherlock demurs. “Not this time,” he says, his voice gone low and velvety. “This is the only thing in the world that matters to me right now.” He puts his face into John’s hair and does something that could only be termed nuzzling, and the gesture is so intimate and tender that John closes his eyes and bathes in it. “So – stay here with me,” Sherlock says, his breath warm, lips pressing into his forehead. “Please.”

John hears himself make a wholly non-verbal sound in response, his heart nearly dissolving. He put his arms around Sherlock and holds him as tightly as he can, his face pressed into Sherlock’s cheek, and he can feel Sherlock’s heart beating directly against his own. Overwhelming amounts of relief and joy are welling up within him in a mixture so heady that he feels drunk. “I’ll never leave you,” he vows, his voice low and fierce. 

“Nor I you,” Sherlock murmurs, and John hears it as the promise that it is. “You’re my whole life. You’re my everything.”

“You’re mine, too,” John tells him, his eyes wet again, and Sherlock pulls back just far enough to look into his eyes with so much feeling that it nearly overwhelms him, then swiftly moves in and kisses him without a single ounce of hesitation. 

*** 

It’s Monday afternoon when John gets a text from a number he doesn’t recognise. He and Sherlock ate lunch and now Sherlock’s off at the lab, taking a look at a skull Molly has promised should be interesting. John unlocks the screen of his phone and frowns at the unknown number. The text reads: 

_John, this is Corey. I wondered if you might have a few minutes_   
_this afternoon. I know it’s short notice but I just wanted to have_   
_a quick word if you wouldn’t mind. I’d appreciate it a lot._

John feels a stirring of unease. What could Corey Graham possibly want from him? He thinks for a minute or two, then writes back, _Sure, I suppose so. Should I come down to Covent Garden?_

Corey texts back immediately. _If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great. Do you know where Balthazar is, on Wellington?_

_I’ll find it_ , John types back. _Be there in about 20 minutes._

_Great. I’m staying just around the corner,_ Corey sends back. 

John gets up and puts his jacket and shoes on, then jogs down to the street, heading toward the Baker Street station. He swipes his card through the reader, just gets the Jubilee line, and sends Sherlock a quick text. _Just running an errand. Should be home soon. xo_ He feels a bit silly sending the ‘xo’ at the end, but he also doesn’t really care. Today is the first time he and Sherlock have even been apart since Sherlock came back on Friday, and if he’s feeling like a bit of a sap, so be it. He can live with that.

It’s been incredible, honestly. He and Sherlock took themselves to the sofa and tumbled onto it, arms around each other, and kissed until it wasn’t enough and Sherlock pulled John down onto him, their bodies rubbing and thrusting through their clothes until that wasn’t enough, either. Later, they’d giggled through getting dressed again, then made pasta for dinner, and cooking with Sherlock like that was amazing – trying to chop garlic and not cut half his fingers off with Sherlock’s arms around him from behind, hands slipping beneath his shirt as he craned around to kiss John’s ear and neck and eventually his mouth again, both of them getting constantly distracted and nearly burning everything, the water boiling over as John pushed Sherlock up against the fridge as they kissed, wooden spoon in hand. They ate half in each other’s laps, then went to bed almost immediately after that, spending half the night alternately talking and touching. Sherlock wanted to try going down on him again, which John absolutely wasn’t about to deny him the chance to do, his ego practically trebling in size when Sherlock informed him that his cock is bigger than Corey’s. Immediately following this pronouncement, John had rolled Sherlock onto his back and returned the favour for the first time in his own experience, and it was nice to have the tables turned, with John being the one without any previous experience for once. 

They spent Saturday cocooned in Sherlock’s bedroom – now officially ‘their’ bedroom, John thinks smugly to himself as he changes trains at Green Park. They only left in search of occasional sustenance, then went back to their explorations of their newly-claimed status. On Sunday, they dragged themselves out for brunch at The Atrium again, went for a long walk through Hyde Park, dappled in sunlight and full of other park-goers, hand-in-hand and neither of them giving two hoots who might care. They invited Mrs Hudson up for supper (ordering in from the Chinese on the corner, as neither of them could stop touching the other long enough to be bothered to cook) and told her their news, and she was delighted, at least once all the necessary explanations were finished with. Obviously they didn’t tell her about the coaching business, but it wasn’t necessary, anyway. And later, after she went back downstairs, they tidied up a little, got through all of five minutes of the news before getting distracted and went back to bed. They had what Sherlock still insists on calling ‘real sex’ again, John entering him face-to-face this time, and it was even better than the first time. They fell asleep like that, John still inside and on top of Sherlock, Sherlock’s thudding heartbeat echoing into his own chest. 

It's been like paradise, John thinks, leaving the Tube and emerging into the sunny spring air again. He’s happier than he even knew it was possible to be, and the best part is knowing that Sherlock is every bit as over the moon as he is. His phone buzzes and he checks the text as he walks, already knowing that it’s Sherlock. _Okay. I’ll be done soon. Might have a new skull for the mantle! xx_ John grins at his phone and then puts it into his pocket, his heart soaring at the stupidly small thing of the ‘xx’. Sherlock never would have been so openly demonstrative before this, but yesterday afternoon he even kissed John just off one of the walking paths in the park, barely out of view behind a tree.

He looks around St. James Street admiringly and admits without envy that he can see why Corey might have chosen this bit of London to stay in. Lots of good restaurants, charming streets and shops… but Sherlock wouldn’t have fit into the picture. Not in the long run, though Sherlock has said that it was never meant to be a ‘long run’ sort of thing. Just a temporary distraction. John tries to imagine him cheerfully informing Corey Graham that he was bringing a new skull to reside on the mantle of whatever posh condo Corey had rented, and can’t even picture it. 

He arrives at the French bakery a few minutes later, checking the time. Corey is already there, plainclothes security guards scattered rather obviously at nearby tables, at least to John’s eye, drinking coffees and pretending to ignore Corey. John eyes them and slides past them unchallenged to sit down across from Corey. “I hope I’m not late,” he says awkwardly. 

“You’re not. I was early,” Corey assures him. “Thanks for coming. I know it’s weird that I asked.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” John says, still uncomfortable. They’re seated in a corner, but even out of the direct light it strikes John afresh just how bloody attractive Corey actually is. For a split second, jealousy surges through his veins all over again, thinking of Corey touching Sherlock, putting his mouth on Sherlock’s cock – but he pushes this down hard. Nothing the two of them have done together has any bearing on what he and Sherlock have. They love each other, and that trumps absolutely anything that’s come before, for either of them. Corey has never seen Sherlock giggling helplessly in discovery of how ticklish his ribcage is, every line of his face crunched into laughter, tears leaking from his eyes as he begs for mercy, nor the predatory light in his eyes before he turns the tables and tackles his offender. John almost smiles at the memory in spite of himself, remembering Sherlock’s arms like pillars around his shoulders, his own verbal challenge in asking what Sherlock planned to do next. And then how Sherlock answered, entirely non-verbally. No: it doesn’t matter anymore. The competition is over, if it was ever even on. John exhales and makes his shoulders settle. “What can I do for you?” he asks, satisfied to hear his voice come out evenly. 

“I just wanted a word,” Corey says. “But can I get you something?” He raises a hand and a server materialises instantly. 

“I’m okay,” John tries, but Corey insists. 

“Please,” he says. “Let me. A coffee or something? They also have really good desserts here…” 

The server waits patiently. “Er, a tea, then?” John requests. “Earl Grey, if you’ve got it.” 

“Of course,” the server says, jotting it down. “Something sweet to go with it?” 

“They’ve got tarte tatin,” Corey tells him. “I know Sherlock likes that…”

John glances at him, then relents. “All right, then, but only if you’re getting something, too.” 

“Sure.” Corey hands his menu back to the waiter. “I’ll try your lemon meringue pie, with a café au lait.” 

“Er, I’ll have the raspberry soufflé,” John says, scanning the menu card and making a rapid choice. He _does_ like apple desserts, but he remembers that Sherlock did order this one with Corey once before and doesn’t want to underscore yet another thing they have in common and make Corey feel even worse about the whole thing. He gives his menu back and the man disappears again. He locks his fingers together on the table and waits, feeling enormously awkward. He’s already tried to start a conversation, ask what the hell they’re here for, and Corey was the one to divert the subject to ordering drinks and desserts, so the ball is in his court. “You seem to know this place pretty well,” he says, the attempt at small talk coming out as stilted as it feels, but Corey goes with it. 

“I’ve come here once or twice before,” he says. “Once with Sherlock. He had a ham and cheese croissant, I think.” 

John remembers and nods. “The time when he wasn’t feeling that well,” he says, feeling still more awkward for even knowing that, for revealing to Corey that he’s been in the know about everything that happened between them all along. 

“That’s the one.” Corey clears his throat. “First off, just to say it again, thanks for coming,” he says. “I know it’s weird, my asking to meet up. I just wanted to say a couple of things.” 

John searches his handsome face. “Like what?” he asks. Before, he might have felt short, plain, dumpy, and poor next to this god of a man, but he’s the one who somehow, miraculously, won Sherlock. It changes everything. 

“Like that I’m sorry,” Corey says, a bit starkly. The server returns and briskly sets down their drinks, including a small pot of milk for John’s tea. When he’s gone again, Corey continues, his hazel eyes seeming darker than they did before. “I mean that. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how things were between the two of you. From what I’ve been told, it seems that you two didn’t really know, either. But I’m sorry for moving in on what must have felt like your territory, even if it hadn’t happened yet. I didn’t realise. I mean, I guess I sort of wondered, with you guys living together and all that. I didn’t know if it was just a work relationship plus friendship, or what. And I liked Sherlock right from the start. I mean, you know what he’s like, obviously. He’s incredibly attractive, super intelligent, charismatic… so I thought I’d just give it a shot. I didn’t even know if he was into men, but you two had to know that I was from the case, so I just said, what the hell, and asked for his number. It’s always a bit of a risk, in my position, but I liked him enough that I decided I didn’t care. I was actually kind of surprised when he agreed to come out for a drink – which I now know was because you encouraged him to, and helped him figure out. So, my apologies, and also thanks, I guess? Because if you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten any of the time I had with him. But knowing now that you felt the way you did, I’m really sorry.” 

John is genuinely startled by this, and doesn’t know what to say. He busies himself with filling his cup from the small teapot and adding milk. “Thanks, I suppose, and – you’re welcome? Jesus. I don’t know how to respond to that, honestly,” he admits, grimacing a little. 

Corey gives a rueful laugh. “Yeah, I know. Kind of a weird thing for someone to tell you.” 

“The whole situation has been fairly weird, to be fair,” John says dryly. 

“Uh, yeah. That’s definitely true,” Corey says, grinning. He takes a sip of his café au lait. “I really liked him, you know. I could sense his caution, though. The constant politeness. I had the sense that I was never really getting the real thing, never getting past that surface layer, and it frustrated me. That said, I also knew that we were still just getting to know each other, and that maybe he was hesitant to let it go any deeper because neither of us knew how long it was going to last. And I knew all along that it was probably going to be a necessarily short relationship, if we can even call it one, but – given time, I could have loved him, if he’d have let me.” He stops as their desserts are served, looking appreciatively down at his lemon pie, topped with blueberry compote. “This looks amazing, though so does yours. Anyway – what I was going to say was that I had no idea that any of that reserve was coming from the fact that he was already in love with someone else. I mean, he told me on Friday when he broke up with me that he’d only even gone for it because he thought he had no chance with you. So it makes complete sense now and I’m glad he told me. It – helps to be able to understand it, you know?” 

John nods slowly and cuts into his soufflé with his fork. “Sure,” he says. “Though neither of us was aware that the other had feelings, either, so we’ve all been in the dark, essentially. Not that I suppose it makes it any easier for you at this point.” 

Corey shakes his head. “Not really, but I do get it,” he says. He tastes his pie, swallows it, then says, “I was pretty blown away when he told me that he’d never been with anyone before. He seemed so – not confident, exactly, but – like he knew exactly what he was doing, every time. Those first two dates ended kind of abruptly, but after that it was all smooth sailing. You must be an incredible tutor.” 

John feels heat rise to his cheeks. “He asked me to help him figure out whatever he might need to know in order to navigate the whole thing,” he says, studying a forkful of pink soufflé. “Not – I mean, neither of us knew then that it would be more than that first drink you asked him out for. I thought it was what he wanted, and since he asked… I thought that the thing to do, as his best friend, was to help him get it. Get you, if that was what he wanted. And… he did like you, you know. He liked spending time with you. It wasn’t anything to do with you.”

Corey frowns a little, but nods, digesting this along with his pie. “Thanks for saying that,” he says, and clears his throat again. “It does mean something to me to hear that.” 

“Honestly, you got significantly less of Sherlock’s reserve than most people do,” John adds. “He’s barely civil to some people that he’s known for years.” 

This makes Corey laugh. “He’s a special person,” he says. “I feel privileged that I got any of that. Really. And I’m happy for you two. I genuinely am.” 

John looks at him for a moment or two, then smiles. “That’s pretty damned gracious of you,” he says. “I don’t know that I’d be that nice in your place.” 

Corey shrugs. “Can’t escape my ‘nice guy’ reputation, I guess. But really, I mean it. He told me how long the two of you have been missing the mark. He told me about those ‘coaching’ sessions to explain how he’d realised that you felt the same way, not to – I don’t know, make me feel bad about it or something. It just makes a lot of sense, and I’m kind of assuming that you’ve sorted it all out now. I’m hoping you have.” 

John nods. “Yeah. We’re good now,” he says simply. No need to rub Corey’s face in the details of how disgustingly happy they are. 

Corey smiles. “Good,” he says firmly. He hesitates. “This might seem weird, but I just – I’m leaving tomorrow, heading back to LA, and I wanted to leave things on a good note. I’d kind of like to stay friends, at least from afar, if you two would be up for that. You know – if there’s ever a movie premiere that you’d like to attend and want a hook-up for tickets or something, I’d love to be able to help out, et cetera. But I also have something for the two of you.” 

John is taken aback. “You really didn’t have to,” he starts, but Corey waves this off. 

“I know. But I wanted to,” he says. He pauses. “Sherlock said something once, when I was asking him about where you guys like to eat. He said something along the lines of you two not eating in the kinds of places he and I were going because it’s not really in your budget. He assured me that you’re both fine – I know he’s got a trust fund or something like that, and he said you’d recently sold your flat, but – I just wanted to give you something that would allow you to have that kind of lifestyle if you want it. Like – I know you have your work and aren’t the kinds of people to join a yacht club or whatever, but just so that you can eat absolutely anywhere you feel like. Take a nice vacation every now and then.” He reaches down and retrieves a flattish box and sets it on the table, avoiding their cups and dishes. “Go ahead,” he says. 

John pushes his empty soufflé dish away, moves his cup, and pulls the box toward him. Corey wrapped it, so he pulls the paper off and tries not to feel ridiculous about accepting a gift from the man whose boyfriend he more or less just stole and has been sleeping with behind his back, prior claim and coaching arguments aside. He removes the box of the lid and his jaw drops. “Is this – ”

Corey nods. “Take a look,” he invites. 

John lifts the spandex head mask out of the box, the trademark silver-on-blue colours of the _Miracle Man_ costume immediately recognisable. “Is this the real thing?” he asks, hardly believing it. 

“Yup. It’s one of three that I wore during the first film,” Corey says. “I have one of the others at home in LA. I got this one sent over yesterday. The third was sold at a charity auction last year for 1.3 million dollars. This one should be worth even more, given that the rarity value has just gone up by a third.” 

John is stunned. He puts the mask back in the box. “You don’t have to do this,” he says. It comes out a little too bluntly, but he can’t help it. 

“I want to,” Corey says firmly. “You handled it all so nicely, me moving in on your guy. You could have gone to the paps, outed me over the photos Evan took if you’d wanted to, but instead you just kept allowing it to happen, even enabling it to happen. That’s amazingly generous – I don’t think I could have done that. I know I’ve lost Sherlock to the better man here. Not that I ever had him in the first place – you’ve had his heart all along. You deserve him, and you both deserve to be happy.”

John’s throat tightens. He looks down at the box again. “That’s – I mean, I just feel like we can’t possibly accept this, Corey.”

Corey smiles, nicely. “Yeah, I get it,” he says. “But I mean it. I want you to have it. Sell it wherever you want. I don’t imagine Sherlock would want to keep it for sentimental reasons. We had a nice time together, but you’ve got the real deal and I’m happy for you. Consider it my bitterness-free congratulations to you both.” 

John swallows hard and gets out of his chair. Corey gets to his feet and John hugs him tightly, every ounce of jealousy and resentment he’s harboured toward this man over the past few weeks disappearing forever. “You really are a superhero,” he says. “Thank you. So much.” 

Corey releases him, smiling. “Use it well,” he says. “And do come visit sometime, if you like. You know – maybe not next week, but give me a couple of months and I should be okay. You guys do important work and I just wanted to contribute something, make your lives a little easier.” 

John nods. “Okay,” he says. “Thank you.” It feels pretty inadequate, but he’s not sure what else to say. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Corey says simply. He nods toward the door. “Go ahead, if you want. I’ve got this.” 

“Are you sure?” John asks, but Corey assures him that he is, so John heads back onto the pavement, holding firmly onto the box. He’d best get a cab, considering what’s inside it, he figures, and he waves one down. 

He can hear Sherlock moving around in the flat even as he races up the stairs, and Sherlock hears him, too, appearing in the doorway as John reaches the top of the stairs. “John!” he says, but it’s all he gets the chance to say before John puts his mouth on Sherlock’s, backing him into doorframe and snogging him senseless. It goes on for several very good minutes, hands all over each other in spite of the box John’s still clutching. “Goodness,” Sherlock says breathlessly, a few minutes later. “What brought that on? Where did you go?” 

“It’s a long story, but – I met up with Corey, actually,” John says. “It was his idea. I want to go out tonight, to the fanciest restaurant we’d both like to try. Somewhere neither of us has been before.” 

Sherlock looks rather astonished. “All right,” he says. “Beyond the obvious, what’s the occasion?” 

John brings the box around into Sherlock’s sight. “Corey gave us a present,” he says. “I’ll explain over dinner. Let’s pick out a place, then get properly dressed. It’s time we celebrated in style.” 

Sherlock blinks several times, then begins to smile. “Okay,” he says, not questioning this. He pulls John close again, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders. “I think it could be fairly said that we’ve earned it. And besides, I’d go anywhere with you.” 

John hugs him back hard and lets himself drown in the love washing through his tissues and bones for this most important person to have ever come into his life. “I love you,” he says tightly, drinking it in, and Sherlock puts his head down on top of his and says it back. 

After a bit, they separate a little, foolish smiles plastered all over their faces. “Do we have time for you to meet our new skull?” Sherlock asks hopefully, and John laughs. 

“Of course,” he says. “We’ve got time for everything now.” 

Sherlock smiles at him and takes him by the hand, leading him over to the mantle. “Yes,” he says simply. “We do.” 

*


End file.
